Loose Pages
by RivLee
Summary: A collection of one-off stories in the Legend, Lore, and Lullabies verse. First-Fourth Ages. AU, OFC, OMC, Gen, Het, Slash.
1. Deep and Crisp and Even

**Disclaimer: **It all belongs to Tolkien.

**Author:** rivlee

**Title:** Deep And Crisp And Even

**Series:** Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:** Third Age

**Place:** Mirkwood

**Rating:** PG

**Characters/Pairing:** Thranduil, Bard. Gen.

**Summary:** Bard seeks aid from the Elvenking. Winter, TA 2942.

**A/N:** Unbeated. First posted Dec, 10, 2007.

_**Mirkwood, TA 2942**_

Mirkwood was a forest dark and dangerous at the best of times and the road to death at the worst. While winter's snowfalls lightened the ground and made the tracking of the dreaded spiders that much easier, its bitter winds kept all inside while its snow storms deadened all signs and sounds of life. Even the elves felt winter's frost in the wood, their light clothes of autumn replaced by leather and fur, keeping their body's warmth close to the skin.

The people of Mirkwood, elves and men, still needed to survive the winter. Hunts were required, as was forging for wood to light the fires in the Elvenking's halls. Things were even more desperate after the Battle of the Five Armies. Lake-town was destroyed and in need of aid from all its allies, even those that raised the people's suspicion.

Bard knew he had to wander under the snow-covered eaves of Mirkwood to seek the help of the elves. Thranduil had come to the people of Lake-town once with supplies, he was not likely to do it again. If the people of Lake-town were to receive help, they needed to make the journey to the Elvenking and ask in person.

The wood was said to be better, since Gandalf the Grey had cleared it of its dark inhabitants. Evil beings, poisoning the very soil of what was once Greenwood the Great. Bard could not help his fear though; he grew up with stories in his ear about how the woods were cursed. Men disappeared under the branches, never to emerge again. More than elves and spiders dwelled here, he was certain.

A cold wind blew, rattling the bare tree branches and raising a ghostly whistle. Bard pulled his thread-bare cloak tighter around his body. The fur-lined cloaks of his past had burned in the fires of Smaug's vengeance. Times were desperate, especially with a portion of the dragon's ransom forever lost, gone with the life of the treacherous Master of Lake-town.

Bard had helped save the people of Lake-town once and he could not in good conscious leave them to fight the winter on their own, even as he tried to re-build Dale from the ruins. So he undertook this journey, this task, with the strength of heart and character that was only found in the truly honorable. Success was not as important as trying, if only to inspire another to take his place if he should fall. The people of Lake-town did not survive the attacks of a dragon and a war only to succumb to winter's frost.

Bard pulled out his map, trying to find the way to the home of Thranduil. Thranduil had assured him, if ever he needed shelter the path to the Elvenking's Halls would reveal itself. In all honesty, Bard was hoping to run into an elven party to lead the way.

The snow began to fall and Bard bowed his head, adjusting the hood of his cloak, and pushed through the weather. It would not do to come this far only to be buried in a snow drift. There was a path here, it went around the back of the caves to the front gates. He had crossed the Forest River hours ago, the path had to be somewhere near Bard could not shake the feeling that somewhere in the snow, there were elves watching him struggle to find the way. They were probably hiding in the evergreens, or perched behind the snow covered rocks. He had seen the winter cloaks of the elves, white woven fabric trimmed with white fur. Their pale skin and silver hair let them blend into the winter terrain.

He tightened the strap of his quiver, eyes casting about in search of hidden friends or enemies. He stopped, hand slipping to the knife on his belt as a black dot raced down a tree. He relaxed his grip, seeing it was only one of the black squirrels of Mirkwood. Curious creatures, far too willing to be out among people than most animals. The squirrel scurried along, racing upon a path that seemed embedded into the ground. The snow outlined the way, sinking deeper along a trench, trees and rocks marking the boundaries. Bard followed the squirrel until it moved off the path, running to the right side and perching on a bush. Bard turned back to the path, stumbling forward and catching himself before he landed. He looked down at the forest floor, wondering what could have tripped him up. When he glanced up again, a bridge was in his sight, the gates of the Elvenking's home not far behind. Bard turned back around to locate the squirrel, but it had disappeared into the swirling winds of snow.

Bard was led by a she-elf into a comfortable study. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting orange and red shadows on the dark walls. The furnishings were made of wood, as was the door. A window was carved out of the rock, doors leading to what he could only assume was a balcony. The chairs were a mixture of styles, some padded with leather others overstuffed with down, and yet more bare wood gleaming in the firelight. The shelves were crammed with volumes, loose papers were piled up on the many desks. A desk closest to the fire held a workstation of some sort, unmarked virgin bows resting beside a chair carved in the form of a wooden leaf. Resin, string, knife and varnish also surrounded the area. It was clearly the chair of an elf who liked to decorate and fashion his own bows and arrows.

He wandered over to the desk in the corner furthest away from the fire. He did not know much elvish, but he knew a patrol roster when he saw one. There were letters, the wax seals broken and hard, cutting through an image of a river flowing through a mountain valley. There were drawings fastened tight to wooden backings leaning against the wall. Elves, dark-haired ones, in long and heavy robes so different from the elves of the wood.

He stepped back from the desk right as the door opened. Bard turned, dropping his head in a gesture of deference as the Woodland King entered. He was one of the tallest beings Bard had ever encountered, and had more grace and power than any other he had met. The King wore a white robe over a green tunic and brown leggings, golden thread weaving through both. White gems were in his hair, gleaming like snowflakes too stubborn to be melted away. Atop his head rested the winter crown, a garland fashioned of holly leaves and berries, a pine sprig and its cone.

"Please, Bard the Bowman," the Elvenking gestured to a seat by the fire, "sit down."

Bard crossed the room and took his seat, surprised at the softness of the chair. His fingers trailed over the luxurious fabric on the arms. The Elvenking approached him, offering up a small glass of some clear liquid. Bard accepted, taking a cautious sniff. It was not water, for the smell was too sweet. He took a tentative sip. He almost gasped at the warmth that spread through is body.

"It is miruvor." Thranduil said. "A creation from Imladris."

"Imladris?" Bard asked.

"I believe it is called Rivendell in the Common Tongue. Do you know of this land?"

"Only in legend." Bard admitted. "It lies over the Misty Mountains, does it not, in the West?"

"Indeed." Thranduil said. "The Last Homely House of the West, the heart of elven lore and healing magic on Arda." Thranduil held up his cup, strong fingers adorned with the rings of station, "This drink is one of their best commodities. It is a cordial that renews the strength of any who drinks it, the most powerful of its kind on these shores."

Bard stared down into his glass, marveling over the powers of a simple drink. "It must be very valuable."

Thranduil laughed, "Not as much as you think, at least not to the elves. Elrond sends crates of this off whenever he is feeling particularly worried. That daughter of his needs to return home before he mother-hens us all into mindless fools." He placed his glass down on an end table. "Why do you come, Bard?"

Bard raised his eyes, meeting those of Thranduil, fighting to urge to flinch at the power and years within them. "I need your assistance, Elvenking. Winter rages on and we run out of reserves. What was not destroyed by the fire has been used near to depletion and a portion of the dragon's treasure we had was taken by the former Master of Lake-town, dead and gone with him. I do not ask for goods from your own stores."

Thranduil smiled, "Then what do you ask?"

"To know one of your hunting paths. Not your most successful route, just one you know has animals to hunt and possibly nuts and berries to gather and consume. I know the elves hunt throughout the season and I know how much my people will be in your debt if you reveal such a matter to us." Bard finished his speech and stayed silent as Thranduil studied him.

The Elvenking sat back in his chair, hands placed on the armrests much like he sat on this throne. Bard could believe all the stories about Thranduil's magic as he sat across from him, watching the shadows of the fire play over his hair and skin. There was a smile of amusement on the elf's face, as if he found something humorous in Bard's request.

"We do not own the paths," Thranduil finally said, "nor do we hide them for any others. The knowledge is there for those to seek if they are willing to look."

Bard swallowed back his first response, knowing now was not the time for arrogant and angered statements.

"Perhaps I should take into account the lack of time your people have to find the paths, since they are so concerned with surviving." Thranduil sighed. "I suppose it is time for me to go on a gathering mission. It has been so long since I've had to show one of my elflings the way." Thranduil stood and walked to the door, opening it up and beckoning someone from the outside. "Ormeril, please show Bard to the guest quarters and tell Balanauth I will be taking Bard out on a hunt tomorrow."

"Would you also like to ask my brother to halt his departure from our lands?" The she-elf asked.

Thranduil looked out the window before turning back to the she-elf. "Tell Tirnion it will be best for him to hold-off his departure for a fortnight. There is a storm coming off the mountains and we do not need him stranded in it." Thranduil turned to Bard, "Rest tonight, Bard, and we will set out in the morning."

"I thank you for your generosity, King Thranduil, and your hospitality." Bard said.

Thranduil smiled, "I hope you remember such sentiments after tomorrow." The King patted his shoulder and left the room.

"Please, come with me." The she-elf said, her words slow and careful. It was clear she was not used to speaking the Common Tongue. She was beautiful, young in a way only the elves were.

Bard followed her, his eyes straying back and forth as he went down the twisting hallways and staircases. Tapestries and flags hung on the walls, paintings and weapons of old mounted along and above doorways. Bard knew there were hidden pathways, could feel a draft on his hands coming from what should have been a solid wall, could hear the resounding echoes of the kitchen and the warriors training.

He was brought down a hallway infused with torchlight. There were balconies along the sides and Bard could spy the view of what must have lied between the Halls and the mountain. There were miles of beech trees, stables, small huts. The actions of everyday life were below him, elves laughing and singing, dancing a jig on the ground and kicking up the snow. A large bonfire burned in the middle and Bard watched in fascination as a group of elves went through hand-to-hand combat training.

"Here is your room." The she-elf said, pulling back a dark wooden door. "You are free to wander and you will hear the sound of a bell when it is time for meals." The she-elf turned the leave, descending down a flight of stairs that Bard had not seen.

Bard walked into the room, marveling over the skins, furs and linens on the bed. There were books on the shelves. A desk full of writing materials. Flutes and music sheets. Bard did not think he had ever been surrounded by such wealth. He walked to the desk and put down his quiver and took off his pouch and cloak. He poured a drink from the small table in the center of the room, piled with a wide range of small foods, some he had never seen before. Bard sat back, pulling off his boots, and wondering just what was in store for him tomorrow.

The wind was stronger today, more harsh and bitter than yesterday. Bard pulled his cloak tighter, opening and closing his fingers in the hope they would stop aching. He studied his companions, both elves. Thranduil stood in front of him, walking through the snow as easily as one would walk through soft grass. The Elvenking wore no crown out here, adorned in the same garb of all the hunting elves. Even so, the manner in which he held himself gave his station away. His head was uncovered and there was an almost childish joy in his face as he walked through the snow. He stopped ever now and then, listening to a voice or a song Bard could never hear, no matter how he strained his ears.

The other elf was different from most Bard had seen. He had dark hair and eyes and spoke the Common Tongue with more ease than any elf he had met. He was broader in frame than even Thranduil and bore a tattooed mark on his wrist. His clothes were not the forest greens and browns of Mirkwood, but dark blues and greys of another land. His name was Balanauth, an elf from Rivendell, recently moved to Mirkwood. His smile was warm and he appeared more approachable than any of the Mirkwood elves.

"Does the cold bother you, Bard?" Balanauth asked. "We can stop for a moment so you can re-gain your bearings."

"I would not desire to halt us." Bard answered.

"Your be little use to your people if your limbs drop off from frost-bite." Thranduil said. He held out a flask to Bard. "Drink some miruvor, Bard, or you will not survive this journey."

Bard took the offering, glancing at the smooth metal of the flask long enough to note an engraving of two large and sprawling trees, before raising the container to his lips. He took a longer sip this time than he had yesterday but did not gulp the drink down, no matter how cold he was. Bard handed the flask back to Thranduil with a nod. He asked the Elvenking, "May I ask why we did not ride out?"

Balanauth smiled at him, "My captain in Rivendell taught me that the most important lesson of hunting is to never kill more than you can carry. If you do decide to make a horse you beast of burden, you cannot expect it to carry your prize the whole way home. It is greedy to take more than your share, be it of animal life or horse's endurance. There must be a respect for the animals, even as you make them your food. If you kill something you cannot carry, you have wasted that animal's life, your time, and the hope of your people. Even if you clean the animal at the site, discarding all uses for its skin or fur, you still have to carry all that meat back."

"Horses can also startle the animals you want to catch." Thranduil said. "It is one thing when you use the hunt as a game, quite another when you hunt out of necessity. Though I suspect with all the fishing done in Lake-town, horses are often used to carry bushels of them back to the town square."

"The population of fish has dwindled these past few decades, first with the darkness poisoning the water and then when we relied on the population for our primary food source." Bard answered. "I was always taught the first rule of hunting was to not get killed in the process."

Both elves stopped and turned to stare at him. Looks of shock colored their faces.

"Thranduil, you have been in this world longer than I," Balanauth said, "has an elf ever died on a hunt?"

"For a food source?" Thranduil asked. "Not that I know of; there have been a few injuries of elves from tusks or antlers, the occasional sloppy work of an archer, but never death."

"You are not as fragile as us." Bard said.

"Only in some things." Thranduil replied, his voice low as his eyes turned to the West.

Balanauth seemed to sense something wrong with the King and motioned Bard to silence. He touched Thranduil on the soldier, bringing him back to this moment as the snow piled around their feet. "Thranduil, may you tell us what path we take?"

Thranduil nodded, turning back to their original direction. "We travel back to Lake-town. I will show Bard the closest hunting ground to his home. The best game to find this time of year are deer, as I'm sure you know, though you may find a moose along the way."

"Rabbits are also a good choice, if you are desperate." Balanauth said. "There are other small-game animals, though I am more familiar with those in my homeland."

"Former homeland," Thranduil interrupted, "or do I need to tell Tollureth you are planning to run back to Elrond's good graces before the year is out."

"Former homeland, then." Balanauth said. "It will take me some time to break such a habit."

"How long have you dwelt here?" Bard asked.

"Officially?" Balanauth asked. "Only a few months." Balanauth pulled his pack higher on his back, "But I have spent may decades living in the King's Halls."

"Is it different from where you lived?" Bard asked, hoping to focus on something other than how cold he felt. He knew little of elven realms, he heard there was one group who lived in trees and another who built ships.

"I do not know if you can even compare Rivendell and Mirkwood." Balanauth said. There was a wistful look on his face, "Winter is not so harsh there, no ice to stop the loud noise of the river and the waterfalls. You never know who will come by for a visit, or what realm they will come from. More than one elf of legend lives in Elrond's home, not even including Elrond himself. I do not have the words to describe it Bard, I am afraid it is something you must see with your own eyes."

Bard ducked his head, "I doubt that will be a possibility."

"Never rule it out; if any group of elves willingly makes contact with the Race of Men, it is them. The Dunedain are descended from the twin brother of Elrond Half-Elven, and there is a certain need they feel to watch after Men." Thranduil said. He pointed to an object in the distance, "Who is that elderly man?"

Bard walked over to Thranduil, his legs starting to seize up from the cold. He could see no man in the distance, only a spot shuffling along the ground.

"He looks to be gathering fallen tree limbs." Balanauth said, raising a hand over his eyes to peer into the horizon. "He is too old to be out in such weather on his own."

"It must be the Old Man of the Mountain." Bard said, ordering his body to stop its chills. "He is a poor man who lives on the borders of the land, between the forest and the mountains. He has no trade the people know of and the Master of Lake-town did not allow him to cross into the city. I must confess, I did not think him to still be living."

"Balanauth, what do we have in your pack?" Thranduil asked.

"More than enough food to leave with the elderly man," Balanauth said, "it should last him for a fortnight or so until we can bring more."

"How far does he live from here?" Thranduil asked Bard.

"A league or so." Bard replied.

Thranduil sighed, "And he walked this far looking for supplies." The Elvenking shook his head, "We must assist him. I cannot in good conscious leave him to Winter's mercy."

Balanauth nodded, walking in front of Thranduil at a faster pace, before taking to a run. Soon the elf was far beyond Bard's sight.

"You are still cold, Bard." Thranduil replied, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I must confess, Elvenking, I do not think I can walk much more in this weather, even with your elven cordial to warm me." Bard was ashamed to admit it, but he knew when it was time to speak the truth.

"Tell me, Bard, if you saw that old man on your way, what would you do?" Thranduil asked.

"Help him." Bard answered. "The Master of Lake-town was not a man of good character; he had no right to expel those in need. We are all in need at this time. Who am I to say the people of Lake-town are better than him?"

Thranduil clapped Bard's shoulder. "You will make a fine ruler one day, Bard. You know that when it comes to your people nothing separates the peasant from the king when we are in need. Remember, Bard, the best thing a ruler can do is to remember those who are not so blessed, and to help them, if you desire to find any good fortune of your own." Thranduil began to walk, "Follow in my footsteps, Bard, and you will find what you need in order to walk on."

Bard watched the Elvenking march on, confused by his words. The wind blew again, causing his teeth to shatter and his body to shake. He sighed, breath misting in the air, and took his first step forward. There were no footprints where Thranduil walked, but there was a visible dint in the snow. As his foot came down, Bard was shocked to feel heat suffuse his body. He stepped forward with his other foot, and still felt warmth, as if it rose up from the very ground. It was too warm to be a natural act, the snow would have melted from such warmth. He studied Thranduil's strong back, head carried high and hands held out to catch the snow. The Elvenking said nothing of the use of his magic, appeared to be wasting no energy in its making. Bard shook his head again, wondering why he did not remember the Elvenking's penchant for teaching two lessons at once. Bard strode forward boldly.

He would follow in the Elvenking's steps, at least where it mattered most.

Bard never was a great admirer of jewels. Bows, however, were another matter.


	2. To Breathe A Sigh or Two

**Disclaimer: **It all belongs to Tolkien.

**Author:** rivlee

**Title:** To Breathe A Sigh or Two

**Series:** Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:** Third Age

**Place:** Aman, Imladris

**Rating:** G

**Characters/Pairing:** Celebrian, Elrond, Ecthelion. Celebrian/Elrond.

**Summary:** Celebrian and Elrond, a winter without each other.

**A/N:** Unbeated. First posted Dec. 23, 2007.

_**To Breathe A Sigh Or Two**_

If she was in Imladris, the snow would be blanketing the ground. If she was in Imladris, the Hall of Fire would provide the sounds of the night, with dancing, singing and laughter. Lovers would be in hidden alcoves and dark corners of the gardens, enjoying the beauty of the night and the warmth of each other. If she was in Imladris, her children would surround her, telling stories and dragging her around the dance floor. If she was in Imladris, Elrond's arms would surround her, whispering his true feelings about all the gathered guests, warm breath ghosting across her neck.

She was not in Imladris. She was in the home of Elwing and Earendil on Tol Eressa, still recovering from her wounds. There was no Hall of Fire here, but there was a rowdy group of sailors. The songs were about the sea, not the mysteries of the forest. There was snow, but it was the white powder that would be gone with morning. There were no gardens in the tower, no places to hide except for her rooms.

She gripped her glass of wine, wishing for the mulled cider she normally consumed at this time. She stared into its contents as if she would find all the answers in the reflection and waves of the dark red liquid.

There were so many Mid-winters where she declined the invitation to return to Imladris from Lothlorien, so many wasted memories. She would give near anything to have those chances back. So were the lessons of life and retrospect, she supposed, not knowing the time for memories has passed until it is far gone.

The fire popped and drew Celebrian's attention away from her glass. She watched the flames turn over, separate, spark, and merge together again. The sounds of Earendil's fellow mariners, the sailors of the sky, surrounded her. These were not the sounds of home. She had lived under golden eaves, with nothing but the night wind to sing to her, then she was lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of water falls and loud water. Now she sat, frost forming on the winds, listening to feet thump on a wooden floor as deep voices sung to the sea and to the sky, cruel and sweet mistresses both.

Celebrian sighed and stood. She gave her apologies to Earendil and Elwing, and moved to the stairs, claiming the desire for a walk. She walked down the circular staircase, spying inside the various rooms and watching the life of the night, or rather the day for these men and elves and half-elves of the stars. They would set out soon, but for now they huddled in rooms with their kin or joined the party above.

She pulled a dark blue riding cloak over her dress and picked up one of the exquisite elven lamps. They were similar to those of Imladris, if only more carefully woven. She whispered the words, lighting the flame, and walked out into the night.

Elrond stood on his balcony, listening to Erestor's prayers for the season and the murmuring words of the elves who followed him. He pressed his palms into the smooth rock of the railing, fingernails digging into the stone. A chill ran through his body, an acknowledgement of the cold air and his own pain.

It should have been easier, what with all the years Celebrian had spent in Lothlorien. There was a finality to it now, one that had never been there before. Last year when all the others had mourned, Elrond was nothing if not in shock. How could he mourn when his realm, his children needed him to be strong. Now, with the passing of the years and the realization of his own failure, that despite his reputation and his skill, he still had much to learn, Elrond felt the pain like an arrow to his side.

He blinked, his vision blurred by white. Laughter escaped him as he noticed the snow, saw the bottom of his robes covered in it, his hands disappearing under the soft flakes. There were no more elven voices murmuring in prayer, but he could hear the minstrels re-tuning their instruments in the Hall of Fire, the fast-paced dance over and now time for slower and soothing sounds.

Elrond pushed away from the balcony and brushed the snow off his clothes. He spared one last glance to a cloudy and starless sky and wondered how the night was passing in a land across the sea.

"It is not wise to wander on your own at night, even here," a voice said from the darkness.

Celebrian shook her head and raised her lamp to illuminate Ecthelion's face. "I have a healthy set of lungs and a sharp set of fingernails, Ecthelion, I assure you I will be fine to wander. After surviving an orc abduction and attack I'd like to see what a drunken elf of Aman could try and do to me."

"I do not believe invincibility is such a good thing to have in your process of healing," Ecthelion cautioned, offering an arm to Celebrian as they walked along the shore.

"Is it not invincibility," Celebrian said, "but rather the knowledge that all my fingernails were either ripped out or broken as I did my best to blind and scar orcs. The memory of gouging out their yellow eyes has offered a small bit of closure in the matter."

"That is-" Ecthelion paused. "I am not quite sure what that is." He stopped, studying the sky as Earendil set out. "I could never have imagined that Idril's child would become a star. For a boy who loved the seas as much as he did, I never could have guessed his fate was in the sky."

"But still in a ship," Celebrian said.

She studied Ecthelion's face, a youthful one with only his eyes carrying the signs of his age. He was so different from Elrond, who wore his years with pride. Elrond's face, his body, his very soul was so different from all the other elves she knew and even when she was still rebelling against their arranged marriage, she was attracted to that difference. It was amazing to have met the generations of elves that had formed Elrond, at least in the physical sense. She doubted there would be a chance for her to meet Maglor or Maedhros and find out what Elrond was like as a child. There would never be a chance to speak with Elros and find all those secrets Elrond kept hidden, even from her. Cirdan knew a little, Erestor even less, and Gil-galad would be the closest person to Elrond's past she could speak with. Rumor had it another three Ages would have to pass in Arda before his spirit was cleansed.

She watched as Ecthelion tilted his head to the sky, laughing as the snowflakes melted on his face. In that moment he looked so much like her sons that Celebrian felt her breath catch.

"Snow is not so common in Aman, not in the lowlands," Ecthelion said. "We were surrounded by it in Gondolin and I never thought I'd miss it, especially when shoveling all the walk-ways in the city. Now I find myself standing in the snowstorms, savoring what is so uncommon."

"Imladris is always covered in white during the winter. The paths are always clear, the ice always melted, but the snow clings to the woods and the land until sometime in mid-Spring. It never reached the ground in Lothlorien, the canopies were far too dense."

"Is that why you walk the shores?" Ecthelion asked.

"I walk the shores because I needed the silence," Celebrian replied.

Ecthelion looked to the waves. "Your definition of silence is interesting."

"You grow used to the sound," Celebrian said. "And why do you walk the shores?"

"To know that the water I hear is a sea and not a fountain. Reliving your death is not conducive to a night's rest," Ecthelion said.

"Early to be sleeping," Celebrian noted.

"Even elves can be lulled by a warm drink and a warmer fire." Ecthelion laughed. "Though Penlod's story may have helped."

Celebrian laughed, dropping her eyes to the lamp at her side. The light was flickering, growing dim. "I suppose it is time for me to return, though for your own health and safety I should leave you here."

Ecthelion nodded. "I might survive that step over the boundary, but I would rather not test it. The only elf I know of who could cross that threshold without being family is Glorfindel."

"Why is that? I know he swore an oath to Turgon, but so did you all."

Ecthelion led Celebrian to the tower, shells and sand crushing under their feet.

"We did all swear an oath to Turgon." He paused, wind and snow whipping his hair about, "Glorfindel was the only one to swear it to Earendil and his children as well." He stopped at the boundary line. "If the worse should happen, the children would have someone to guide them. That bond, more than the one to Turgon, brought Glorfindel back in my opinion."

"I wonder if he swore it to Elrond as well?" Celebrian mused.

"Do you not know?" Ecthelion asked.

"I did not marry Elrond until well after Glorfindel's return and I never did pay attention to who swore what to whom," Celebrian said.

She passed over the border, feeling the magic tingle through her body. Giving a wave of good night to Ecthelion, Celebrian took her dying lamp inside, watching the snow swirl around her feet.

Elrond sat in the gardens, back resting against the cool rim of Celebrian's favorite fountain. The celebrations inside were subdued, but still a celebration of life, taunting the dark outside with the light of elven laughter. He felt so apart from them, so awkward and distant in his musings.  
He knew he was not the only one to feel so alone and apart on this night. Many passed the holidays and anniversaries in contemplation of the lives and the loss of those they held dear. It was just Elrond's position that left him unsure of how to proceed and in which manner; how to show a face of content and support when having to receive the condolences of dignitaries just hearing the news. Galadriel and Celeborn were of no help; Thranduil offered his advice from when he took the throne after his father's death. Gildor never found the desire to marry. Cirdan was the best to speak with, but since his wife had passed sometime in the First Age, and few remembered he was married, Elrond was not certain he was the elf to ask.

"Has the act of pacing your study become boring?" Glorfindel asked, approaching him with a cup of wine.

He took the offered cup, staying silent as Glorfindel settled beside him.

"It is not wrong for you to take the time you need. No one would blame you if you screamed at one of the over-eager well-wishers," Glorfindel continued.

Elrond shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "I feel out of sorts tonight."

"As any would expect. Your mind is on a person across the seas." Glorfindel stretched his legs out, blue stockings covered in snow. "It happens to me often."

"How do you cope, knowing a whole other family, life, history of you is out there?" Elrond asked. "How do you not lose your sanity over the-"

"Loneliness," Glorfindel interrupted. "Uniqueness? Curses or gifts of the Valar? Power of a sworn oath?" He laughed. "We all live our lives between two worlds, that of the light of Aman and reality of Arda, I am more in-between the two than others. How do I cope?" Glorfindel laughed and stared down into his cup, swirling the wine around. "Most would argue I do not."

"You still join us in the Summer and Spring celebrations, the most sacred of Gondolin," Elrond said.

"After spending the day in contemplation. You will do better next year, and the year after that, until the amount of years pass and you know it was just a long time ago. It does not get easier, you will still stop on the anniversary of the attack, the day she departed, her favorite celebrations, and you will remember and perhaps grieve. It will not incapacitate you, you will not do what you are doing now, spending the day locked-away in your mind. You will find that smiles will come more and more with the memories than tears. Still, there are those days when no memory or amount of hope is balm enough for your troubles."

"And what do you do then?" Elrond asked, fingers trailing through the cold water of the fountain.

"I find our favorite group of elflings and remember what it is to be young," Glorfindel answered.

Elrond looked up. "Not innocent?"

"They have not been innocent for centuries. After the attack and all its repercussions, they can only grow and move on," Glorfindel explained.

Elrond watched Rian walk up one of the outer-staircases, a candle clutched in her hand, her movements still slow from a two-year ache.

"And hopefully find forgiveness," he muttered, remembering the vitriol that had spilled from his eldest child's lips. Elrond gestured to Eluialeth's rooms as Rian disappeared inside the house. Laughter poured out of the room into the night, and Elrond smiled as he heard Tirnion trying to repress the urge to hit Elladan and Elrohir. "Should you not join them?"

"I would not mind staying in your company just a moment longer," Glorfindel said.

"I am afraid I just want to send the night with myself. While I know I am not alone, I feel it, and am not fit for company," Elrond stated.

"I think you are doing well," Glorfindel said, cup raised to his lips.

"You willingly spend time with many unsavory folk," Elrond said.

Glorfindel smiled. "Oh, do you think so little of your Chief Councilor?"

Elrond laughed, reveling in the feeling. "I will tell him you said that."

Glorfindel stood. "Then I should start running now." He gathered his drink, "Word of advice?"

"Of course."

"Morwen sends a journal chronicling life in Imladris to Celebrian each year. She's not yet sent out this past year's account. You might find the release for your emotions in words, might feel even better if you know it will reach the hands of the elf you think about."

"I will take it into consideration." Elrond also stood, following Glorfindel into the house. They parted at the staircase, Glorfindel in the direction of the private quarters and Elrond towards the studies. "Say goodnight to the elflings for me."

Glorfindel nodded. "Good night, Elrond."

"You as well," Elrond murmured. He paused for a moment, staring out of the window, watching as one bright star broke through the dense cloud cover. It was breathtaking proof that while the stars were hidden, they were not gone.

Celebrian sat in her room, a small fire warming the cold stone of the floor. She ran her bare toes through the warm carpet. She curled up in the large chair by the window, a flickering candle the only other light in the room as she ran her fingers over the book in her lap. It was the first of many annual accounts of Imladris. It was not so much a yearly account, this one, but a half-year from the time she left to the time it was sent out after the coming of the new year. The measure of time adopted by the mortals never seemed important to her when she lived in Lothlorien. Imladris brought a different world where the passage of time was marked by at least three different calendars, and where time took on more importance, even if it seemed to pass slowly.

She picked up her glass of wine, bringing it to her lips. Nothing but air met them and she sat the glass back down with a sigh. She was too tired to go down to the kitchens and still had little desire to be around other people.

She braided her hair, winding it atop her head and finally opened the book. Her fingers ran over the familiar shapes of Morwen's writing. She turned the pages, laughing over Glorfindel's small sketches of the new ponies and Elladan's face when Eluialeth threw a bucket of table scraps at him. There was Morwen's long rant on a group of advisors in the Havens. Cirdan was the author of a long passage on the building of new ships in the harbors. Finally she came to Morwen's pages on Elrond.

_As for your husband, he is busy training new healers. I think he has finally abandoned all hope that the twins or Arwen will turn to the study. Erestor and Glorfindel have done their best to keep his mind occupied. I cannot say he is well, for I am not a close confidant, but I can tell you there is still laughter in his life. He has been running around Arda. A trip to Gondor was required and I heard rumor the journey was good for him. I know he misses you, as I know you miss him, but do not dwell on such things. You need to heal and focus on yourself._

Celebrian laughed at the optimistic hope of youth. It was not so easy to focus on yourself when you know your children and mate are out there, living on without you.

Celebrian placed her palm on the window, the cool metal of her wedding ring clinking against the glass of the windows. "I miss you," she whispered.

Elrond sat in his study, silence filling the room with the exception of his quill scratching on parchment. The words poured out of him, pages after pages of everything he wanted and needed to say. The sleeves of his robe and his fingertips were stained with ink.

Snow and wind came through the window, ruffling the pages and his hair. He paused in his writing, looked up to the sky and said, "I miss you too."

Elsewhere in the house, elves were dancing and singing. Elsewhere there was a group of siblings, by blood and bond, gathered in a circle as they told stories and played games. Across a sea someone sat in a chair, reading by the fireside. They may all have been separated, but in the back of each other's minds, they were there. Always.


	3. Time of the Ancient Mariner

**Disclaimer: **It all belongs to Tolkien.

**Author:** rivlee

**Title:** Time of the Ancient Mariner

**Series:** Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:** Second Age

**Place:** Lindon

**Rating:** G

**Characters/Pairing:** Glorfindel, Cirdan. Gen.

**Summary:** A small drabble on Glorfindel in Lindon during the New Year.

**A/N:** Unbeated. First posted January 4, 2009.

_**Time of the Ancient Mariner**_

"Another year upon us."

Glorfindel turned around to see Cirdan the Shipwright standing behind him. The ancient elf came next to Glorfindel's side and looked over the sea. The moonlight reflected off the water and shone in the elf's silver beard.

"I am surprised you still count the years," Glorfindel said.

Cirdan's legendary time on Arda was a famous tale even in Glorfindel's first life. He often marveled over the determination it took for an elf to remain on Arda, so far from home for so long a time.

"The years must always be counted, Glorfindel," Cirdan said, "they pass whether or not we want them to. Other elves dismiss the passage of one year when we live so many, but we can never be certain which year will be our last and therefore must hold reverence for each one that goes by." Cirdan smiled as he watched the waves churn in the sea. "Life is nothing but change."

Glorfindel laughed. "Yes, I am quite aware."

Cirdan touched Glorfindel's shoulder, keeping his hand there until Glorfindel raised his eyes to meet their gazes.

"Are you?" Cirdan asked. "It seems to me you are doing your best to relive your past life."

"How so?" Glorfindel asked.

"Isolating yourself from everyone else; hiding behind the claims of duty and only finding purpose in the fight and the blade." Cirdan sighed. "There is so much more to you than the warrior, Glorfindel, and I think you need to remember that."

"I doubt the Valar sent me back to whittle at wood," Glorfindel said.

"How do you know?" Cirdan asked. He stroked a hand through his beard, "For all you know, the Valar brought you back to carve all the tables and desks for the High-king."

"He is not my High-king," Glorfindel hissed.

Cirdan shook his head. "He is, Glorfindel, for now, for this life."

Glorfindel turned his back to the sea and rested against the carved balcony. The sea breeze felt good as it swept across his back. "I did not think it would be this difficult."

Cirdan remained silent and staring at the sea.

"Do you not offer any words of advice, all-knowing Ancient Mariner?" Glorfindel asked.

Cirdan smiled and spoke, "You will live your life however you wish, Glorfindel. Whether you decide to live it like your last, if you find no regrets in your past existence than that is your prerogative. I may offer you the old words of an even older elf, but I have seen the world change, Glorfindel. I have seen the tides wash away shorelines and boats bring as many to my coast as they have taken back. I have seen life and death and now with you, re-birth. The only advice I can offer to you, Glorfindel, is to consider the year."

"Consider the year?"

"It is a cycle. We are born, we learn, we thrive, we begin to wane and we die and we are born again. The year lives much as you do, Glorfindel, but no two years are ever the same, nor are two lifetimes, even if they are lived by the same elf." Cirdan tapped Glorfindel's shoulder as he turned and walked out of the room.

"Consider the year then?" Glorfindel asked as Cirdan approached the doorway.

"It is what I would do," Cirdan said.

"Well," Glorfindel said as he pushed off from the balcony and walked towards Cirdan, "I am not fool enough to turn away the advice from one so much older than myself."

Glorfindel threw an arm around Cirdan's shoulder and walked with him to the celebration banquet below.

A/N: Title is, of course, a play on the title of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's famous _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_.


	4. Songs For the Pure and Free

Disclaimer:

It all belongs to Tolkien.

**Author:** rivlee

**Title:** Songs for the Pure and Free

**Series:** Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:** Second Age

**Place:** Mirkwood

**Rating:** PG

**Characters/Pairing:** Lindir, Elrond, Gil-galad. Gen.

**Summary:** A look at Lindir's life in Lindon.

**A/N:** Unbeated. First posted January 25, 2009.

_**Songs for the Pure and Free**_

In the personal library of King Elessar many journals rested on the shelves. All the books held some sort of biography, but the personal histories of the people of Arda were always sought after by the scribes and the court historians. A special set of these personal histories resided in a locked drawer of the King's study, adjacent to his personal library. The set could not be identified by binding type, nor even by subject, or date, or material used. Geographic area neither united nor divided the collection; some editions contained illustrations while others only held written accounts. Edited copies existed of their contents in archives and libraries throughout Arda, but Elessar's collection remained the most unique and coveted of the set for the Ages. The collection contained the only hand-written journals and diaries where the subjects and the pen holders were the same. Many now have a copy of the Bagginses and their tale, or read Ianto the Detailed's biography of the Sons of Elrond or debated over which journal contained the most sharp edge of wit: that of Lord Erestor, his daughter Lady Eluialeth, or Lady Morwen of Rivendell. King Elessar loved them all equally and reverently; and even though he swore all the journals and diaries carried personal dedications to him, his children knew that their father's name was Elessar and not Estel.

The children of the King grew up with the tales of the personal histories as most children grow up with faery stories. Each child, and later grandchild and great-grandchild, had their favorite account. But the one that each child felt drawn to once they reached the cusp between childhood and adulthood was the personal journal of the renowned Master Lindir, Minstrel of Imladris. The court musicians spoke his name in reverential tones, which always sent King Elessar into peals of laughter when he recalled the teasing and taunting his elders heaped on the minstrel, recounting his many nicknames including the title of "that minstrel boy" that started upon Lindir's arrival in Rivendell and held until his departure.

Lindir's tale holds a bit for all of us, and his life remained more accessible to the masses than the legends associated with names such as Elrond, Glorfindel, Thranduil, Galadriel, Legolas and Gandalf. Lindir held the title of minstrel, came from a background more low than high, earned his affection from his higher-ups through talent, dedication, and a desire to present and preserve tales and truth. He did not rely on spectacle to draw his crowds in, but on his Valar-given talent and his long-honed skill. Minstrels exist in every culture, and Lindir represented all elven minstrels, his life account drawing so close in comparison to the lives of the everyday soldier and the minstrels of the court, that he assured that the view of the elves became something less mythic (with the exception of the legendary elves, of course) and more relatable.

This, below, is part of Lindir's tale. Not all of it, for he was quite long-lived and a touch verbose, but the part of his tale with which many of the young men and women identify. This is the young Lindir, untried by war and still uncertain of his place, but showing a sense of humor and curiosity that formed the great minstrel he became and left us with such a significant plethora of elven music.

His words follow below:

_From the Annals of Imladris, the dairy of the Master Minstrel, Lindir of Imladris._

_**Forlindon in the year 3431 of the Second Age**_

_Is it fate, destiny or personal choice that guides the lives of us all, be we elf or mortal? This has always been my question and I am wanting of an answer now. How is it that I, destined to be nothing but a mere minstrel, have found myself on a battle field against a Dark Lord? The simplest answer to be found by man or elf concerns the desire of the High-king. Gil-galad wishes for music to accompany him into battle; desires the soothing sounds of harp, fiddle, and flute to fill the dark silences between fighting and rest. But there are minstrels all over hill and dale, many of renown backgrounds and long-standing lineages. I am Lindir of Mithlond. My parents' names are lost and forgotten by most. I come from no great house of history. Among my companions I sometimes feel dull and drab. _

_Why, then, did I accept this job and summons?_

_One does not turn down the High-king, of course, but there is more to it. I know that few can wield the power I can with a harp, a flute, a fiddle. Cirdan insists my ability is a gift from the Valar. As a younger elf I blushed and blundered and disagreed. Now, having seen even a small bit of the world, I know that I do play better than most. Do not think me lacking in modesty, I know I am not the best, but I can recogni__ze my better skill and spirit. _

_So many think all it takes to be a minstrel is to pluck a few strings and sing a few lines. They do not realize the illusions you must spin, the magic you must create. The music must come to life. The audience must feel it in their very bones, their very souls. A good minstrel brings hope when there is none. We bring warmth when there is nothing but cold. We remind soldiers what they are fighting for and what they could become. Most important, we remember._

_

* * *

_

_The Study of Gil-galad, High King, year 1690 of the Second Age_

The herald of the High-king studied the elf before him with incredulity. Placing his hands on the armrests of his chair he asked, "You desire to take and untried elf on to what is destined to be one of our harshest battlefields?"

Gil-galad turned from his wine decanter as he spoke to his herald, "Elrond, honestly, he has been trained for this or did you forget the intense training course Erestor set for Lindir back in 390?"

"He has never been tried like this, it is not some skirmish between a group of men but Sauron himself," Elrond replied.

Gil-galad approached his friend with an offered cup of wine. "Elrond, it is a most important and noble tradition to take minstrels to the battlefield. It is part of their duty and sacred oath."

Elrond wrapped a hand around the cup and inquired to the ceiling, "Why do I doubt Lindir will be used simply as a minstrel?"

"Because you are an elf with a talent for battle tactics and are well aware of Lindir's training," Gil-galad replied, taking the seat next to him.

"Not just an elf but an elf-lord now," Glorfindel said as he entered the High-king's rooms. "Do not forget that Ereinion."

Gil-galad raised his cup to the elf. "Ah, Glorfindel, ever rude and pompous in your insistence to arrive in my rooms unannounced. I could have you tried for treason you know."

Glorfindel gave him a pitying look and said, "Oh, Ereinion, do you really want to test the preferences of your people and your friends by putting yourself against me?"

"Will you two please stop." Erestor muttered from the corner. "I spend most days delivering notices of the dead to family members and the last thing I need is to come back here and listen to you two squabble like children. I assumed, wrongly, that I was surrounded by fellow elves not peacocks and children. Now sit down, quiet yourselves, and behave," Erestor stated, turning back to his letters after giving the occupants of the room one last glare.

"Yes, father," Glorfindel replied.

Gil-galad turned to Elrond. "Are you certain _that_ is the elf you want leading your household?"

Elrond laughed. "Him and no other."

"I suggest we just send Erestor to Sauron. He'd probably surrender just to get Erestor to leave," Glorfindel said, pouring himself a glass of wine and ignoring Gil-galad's squawk of protest.

Erestor sniffed. "If it would end this mess, I would do so in a minute."

"I still do not understand why we must take Lindir with us. He is so young." Elrond sighed.

"They are all young. _You_ are all young," Glorfindel said. "However, minstrels, like messengers, are sacred. It is the one rule even Sauron respects. If Lindir was captured for whatever reason he could claim a form of sanctuary and a sacred oath of non-partisanship."

"No enemy force would be dim enough to not make the connection between an enemy minstrel and the wrong side of the battlefield," Erestor muttered, giving his letter writing up for lost and watching the argument sure to unfold. There existed no greater entertainment in the palace than the legendry disagreements between Glorfindel and the High-king.

"Yes, but they do the same with their own spies and are aware of the repercussions if they violate the laws," Glorfindel replied. "Sauron is evil but he also knows how to plan a battle. Early engagement of arms would backfire on both of our sides. The only way to ensure that does not happen is to respect those laws. As long as all the forces fighting on Sauron's side remain terrified of him our minstrel and messenger spies remain the untouchables of the battlefields."

Erestor nodded and turned his attention to Elrond. "It is what Lindir has been trained for, Elrond. All of his missions up to his point have resulted in success; he is very good at playing the role of the naive minstrel."

"It is not just a role, for he is one." Elrond placed his glass on a side table and began pacing the room. "I know he has experienced some of the world up to this point, but all of his missions occurred in areas mostly favorable to us and our causes. Even among those who wish us some ill will, it is nothing compared to the task before us and a mission we would place on Lindir's shoulders. Despite all of his work, the most violence he has witnessed up to now are over-enthusiastic tavern brawls."

"Elrond, I know you have seen our future and you know that all elves will soon be touched by the shadows of war," Gil-galad spoke to his friend. "We cannot afford to keep an elf as skilled as Lindir from such a task. Even if I did not plan on using his other skills, I would have him as a minstrel and a minstrel alone. His ability to appeal to the heart is unrivaled by any other minstrel here and I do not think Cirdan could bear to leave him alone in this city while we are all gone."

"I know you speak the truth, Gil-galad, and I will consent to whatever decision you must make," Elrond said.

"Then we are all agreed," Gil-galad addressed the room, "Lindir will begin to receive intense training for the battlefield and assume the role of both minstrel and spy to a greater extent?"

"Agreed," The other three elves replied, each raising their glasses in gesture to the High-king's decision.

* * *

_**Forlindon, 1693**_

_I made the decision to take a harp with me. Not the one Cirdan gave me or the one I use for performance, but the one I arrived with. It may be an act of superstition, but the harp always brings me good luck in some form. It's gotten me this far at least. Glorfindel says plenty of people carry instruments into the fight. Whistles and flutes are the common type because they are easy to carry. The drum beaters hold their own special places in the march; but some troops also carry hand drums. I may be the only one to carry a harp, but I also may be the only trained minstrel to go. My other instruments of the march and the fight are up for some debate. I do not have my own bow, horse, or sword. I know Gil-galad's stores will be able to supply all, but I cannot help but want to carry my own, seeing the personal weapons all the others carry._

_Forlindon, 1693_

"Do you have your own sword?" Elrond asked as they walked through the armory.

"My father has one that belonged to his father and was forged by my great-grandfather," Lindir said, "I do not know if it will endure any fighting."

"Has it been maintained?" Elrond asked.

"Oh, yes, Father still sharpens it," Lindir replied. He watched in amusement as various she-elves glanced at them and covered their faces with their hands. Elrond remained a desired husband for many an elf.

Elrond ignored the commotion around him and said, "Then the blade shall perform fine. The old swords are forged well." He held open the door to the armory. "Now, let us see about all other sorts of weapons. Do you have your own bow?"

"I do not," Lindir admitted. He gestured to the racks in the armory. "On my previous missions I have always borrowed from the armory."

Elrond frowned. "It would be best if you have your own though. I will write to Gildor and see what he finds on his trade routes. Borrowed bows are good for simple things, but weapons in battle should carry memories personal to you or your line. Horses are one thing to borrow, though Glorfindel will tell you nothing matches the trusted relationship between a horse and rider, but one really should have their own weapons." Elrond walked further into the room, "We will all use the arrows from the stores so we can identify the fletchings. What of daggers, do you have your own?"

Lindir nodded. "Oh yes, and a good set of knives as well."

Elrond nodded in approval. "A very good start. Do you own a kit to keep everything in order and sharpened?"

"Of course," Lindir answered, "I am a minstrel after all and know full well how an instrument must be kept in good condition."

Elrond paused for a moment and laughed. "Forgive me, Lindir, I sometimes forget you are not just some common soldier joining the ranks full-time. Of course you the know the importance of caring for your possessions."

* * *

_**Forlindon, 1699**_

_Lord Elrond and Chief Librarian Erestor trained me to infiltrate enemy lines, or at least they did their best. My true training did not arrive until Lord Glorfindel returned to our shores. For all the tales about Gondolin being isolated from the world, Turgon often sent out his most trusted advisors to gather information. Glorfindel was counted among this elite force and learned how to blend in amongst various groups of elves and men. According to his tales, Lord Ecthelion went out among the masses as a minstrel in order to gain entry into many communities. Every technique Lord Ecthelion used has now been passed on to me by Glorfindel. Glorfindel insists that the easiest way to run any infiltration is to remain as close to the truth as possible. This contradicts what both Erestor and Elrond taught me, but Lord Cirdan insists that Glorfindel's advice is most sound, after all, he has the most experience among all the elves here, including Lord Cirdan._

_With the arrival of Lord Glorfindel, my arms training also increased. High-king Gil-galad taught me in the spear, Erestor and Elrond in the sword, and Lord Cirdan in the bow, but Glorfindel taught me about daggers and using any available detritus as a weapon. He also taught me how to fight while on horseback, something all my previous teachers had overlooked. The plans for most battles are marches, but Glorfindel is insistent that you never know what will happen and must be trained for all eventualities. It was most amusing watching him teach the High-king how to shoot an arrow from a moving horse. I do not know who left those lessons more frustrated in the end, but they did lead to a basis of mutual respect for the two._

_Training Fields of Lindon, 1698_

"Lindir, you must learn to dodge," Glorfindel yelled across the training field.

All elves able to fight received training under Gil-galad's orders. The current exhibition was more to impress their guests than to have any real practice. Glorfindel studied the field before him and noted what elves could survive on the battlefield, those better suited for guard duty here in the city, and those who needed to stay behind in the walls of Gil-galad's palace. The current lists forming in his head detailed the numbers for the traveling sentry duties and the additional forces for Cirdan and Elrond's homes; though the naval warriors would be left to Cirdan's discretion. Glorfindel knew just enough about nautical defense to know it was best left up to a mariner. Elrond's home remained a chief concern, as it also stood as Glorfindel's new home.

_Imladris_.

Glorfindel missed the soothing sounds of the waterfalls and the sense of home. The second list Glorfindel started to compile in regard to Imladris contained the elves to be recruited for Elrond's new household. Lindir sat at the top of the second list; though Elrond would not extend such an invitation until after the final battle. Lindir's training continued to improve and his endurance showed in his performance. Perhaps that would convince Elrond that Lindir could live closer to the heat of the battlefield.

Glorfindel, never one to discourage feelings of filial affection, did not agree with such situations where the affection hindered the advancement of one so worthy. Still, this little performance was not just to show Elrond Lindir's improving skills but to show the Numenoreans that the elves remained serious in this fight. Friends of Gil-galad or no, kinship to Elrond or not, one sure thing to sway a soldier's mind towards unity is to show off the skills and weaknesses of an ally. It allowed them to make their own observations of the situation.

"Why must we put on this little play for the mortals?" Erestor asked. "I know they are supposed to have faith in us by witnessing our abilities to fight, but they must know that what is done on the practice field and what is done on the battlefield are always different things."

"Gil-galad insists on it," Glorfindel said, for once giving the elf some credit.

"By which you mean you insisted on it, passed the idea to Elrond who made a small suggestion to Gil-galad and which now puts us in this current position. I only wonder why you do not have me down there moving back and forth with everyone else and showing off some form of skill," Erestor said.

Glorfindel studied his friend and smiled. Erestor's ability on the battlefield would surprise more than a few, but Erestor was just like Penlod, a scholar who could and would fight when the time came. An elf always underestimated by friend and foe and therefore a more valuable asset than even an elf like Lindir. Lindir, while skilled, could never be like Ecthelion, but there was a spirit in the elf to endure which would also aid their cause.

Glorfindel patted his friend on the back while they studied the gazes of the Numenoreans. "Because you, dear Erestor, are a mystery wrapped in an enigma and like a snake waiting in the bush exists as a silent and deadly surprise."

"Why Glorfindel, I believe that is the nicest thing you ever said to me," Erestor replied. He dropped his sight to the elves below. "Lindir's sword work is vastly improved but he still needs some lessons in his hand-to-hand."

Glorfindel nodded. "I know Cirdan insists he is a Haven's elf through and through, but Silvan must be somewhere in Lindir's line to give such a slim build. I know the Silvan and Teleri share a common descent, but most of the Teleri have broadened out due to the intermixing with the Noldor and the Sindar."

"I believe there is some Silvan on his father's side, a fact which only make sense in regard to Lindir's musical abilities. The Silvan by and large have a talent for song," Erestor said.

* * *

_**Forlindon, 1699**_

_I have just finished an information gathering mission in an interesting little town calling itself Pigswatch. Out of all the names for a settlement, honestly, Pigswatch? That being said, and while I refuse to state my opinion of mortal men's ability to name their homes with anything but pleasant terms, I did enjoy my stay there. It was peaceful, considering all the things going on in the world now. I gathered some idle gossip on riders passing through the village and spent a fortnight playing for my supper. I have a whole new set of songs to add to my ever-expanding collection. For all the horrid stenches and intolerable ale they pass off as drink, the people impressed me with their ability to find joy in all things and a time for song. I never had the joy until now to play for a crowd at the beaten down center of a crossroad, perched on a rock and playing fast dance songs from memory by moon and torchlight. __It is an experience I am eager to repeat in the future._

_Imladris, 1699_

Elrond stood over a table in a wooden hut adding various markings to the map spread out in front of him. Lindir watched his movements, noting how Elrond seemed to know the placement of everything from memory rather than reference.

"I draw maps like this every few years," Elrond said, "I must admit I find it soothing."

"Is that why you need no reference from the other maps?"

Elrond nodded. "Things have not changed much in terms of physical geography. Your very detailed notes provided the additional information needed to show new camps, settlements, and villages."

"I did not know the exact topics to take notes on, so I just listened to the local gossip," Lindir admitted, his attention drawn to the sounds of workers in the fields.

Masons and smiths worked all hours in laying the foundations for what was sure to be a grand home. Erestor insisted on pulling workers from the local settlements, an act supported by Elrond. Both said it would established good relations with the people and provide much needed employment and currency.

"Town gossip is always a good source of information," Elrond said as he added another marking on the map. "Your grasp of the Common Tongue aided your cause immensely."

Lindir wondered at the craftsmanship of the hut they stood in as he replied, "I know some of the dialects of Men, not as many as you or Erestor, but enough to secure lodgings, food, safe passage and to learn their songs and stories. At a child's level, more often than not, but the simple songs do tend to endure."

"The knowledge of many tongues is one of the most important things that separate a minstrel from a common musician," Elrond said.

Lindir turned his attention back to the other elf. "Not necessarily; the minstrel merely gathers the song and tries to understand the traditions and history behind it. The musicians play the song but can still put the proper emotion behind it, even if they did not receive it from the people themselves."

Elrond paused for a moment in his work, a smile appearing for a brief moment before stating, "Yes, I suppose you are right."

Before Lindir could reply, Glorfindel called for him from outside.

"I believe your presence is demanded," Elrond said.

"Do you need anything else from me?" Lindir asked.

"Not at this moment," Elrond said.

Lindir nodded. "Then I shall go." Lindir looked around the hut one last time. "Even though it is unfinished, you have a lovely home, Elrond," he said, leaving before Elrond could reply.

* * *

_**Eriador, 1700**_

_If there is one thing I have noticed in my time among the forces, it is __that we all have ways of coping and habits to get through the lulls and the grief. I never thought to be so close to death, even knowing the kin-slayings when I was still a child. Still, if we do not have habits then our idle thoughts lead our minds on paths they should not wander. Glorfindel keeps himself busy with many things, mainly making sure all other elves keep themselves busy. While he is not the highest ranking elf on the field, his skill and his words have made it more than clear that rank in the court means nothing on the battlefield. For now, Gil-galad bows to Glorfindel's better judgment but I can only wonder how long that will last._

_Eriador, 1700_

"Why did you become a minstrel?" Glorfindel asked. He held a piece of wood in one hand and a carving knife in the other. While his gaze rested on Lindir, his hands worked out a shape from his memory.

"Pardon?" Lindir asked. He paused in the coating of his bow string with wax.

"You asked me the other night why I am a warrior, a question which I never answered." Glorfindel smiled at Lindir's bashful look. "I ask you now, why did you become a minstrel? Was it for the travel or the glory? I think not, since few elven minstrels travel these days, or so Erestor tells me. The exception of course being Gildor's followers, but then, Gildor always was the different one."

"Erestor said Gondolin had a special name for Gildor's people," Lindir remarked.

"We called them the story-keepers," Glorfindel said. "When the gates of the city were still open to outsiders, Gildor's people often found welcome from the weather of the mountains."

"Have they always traveled?" Lindir asked.

"Always."

Lindir shook his head. "I could not imagine such a thing; always traveling, never finding a home."

"Homes are just states of mind Lindir, I believe you refer to a house, or rather a structure with walls and a roof. All elves have a wanderlust in their hearts, few give into it, and even less make it their way of life. As you cannot imagine a home on the ground and under the stars, they cannot imagine spending all their days in one single area not willing to see the world.

They are a group of rebels to be sure, the ones who travel all over, for they refuse to fall under the commands of one ruler and follow all our societal laws. If called to service they will follow, but all those elves belong more to the world itself than any one elf who claims to be a king of all," Glorfindel said.

"Do you always walk the line of blasphemy so closely?" Lindir asked, placing his forgotten bow to the side.

Glorfindel continued in his carving and said, "It is not blasphemy, Lindir. The Valar may have guided the actions which placed that crown on Ereinion's head, but it is not a true blood-rite. If we were to follow the line of direct descendants then Elrond should hold the title."

"On Aman, is it true you met the Valar?" Lindir asked.

"Meeting the Valar does tend to happen when one dies, Lindir," Glorfindel said, his smile belying any chastisement in his words.

"Right," Lindir said, dropping his gaze back down to his bow.

"You never told me why you became a minstrel," Glorfindel said.

Lindir looked up to the night sky and said, "The songs; I've always heard and seen them wherever I go. I wanted to add my own ideas to the music I heard all around me. The notes even haunt me in my sleep. It seemed the most logical choice of occupations."

"You could have stayed a court musician rather than go through the training to become a minstrel."

Lindir shrugged. "Cirdan only has minstrels, since he does not believe in holding a court. You lived among his people, you know how important songs are to them. The music holds their history and keeps the memories of all their gains and losses alive."

"So you became a minstrel because it was the calling of your soul and you could see yourself as nothing else?" Glorfindel asked.

"I suppose so, yes."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow and asked, "And you wonder why I became a warrior?"

"But were your born with the desire to yield a blade, or a dagger, or any other weapon or was it something you just gained skill in through training?" Lindir asked.

"I have a battlefield tactician's mind. I can study an enemy's attack for a minute or so and guess their next move. Most of my weapons training came as easy as breathing and yes, I have awoken from a rest with a brilliant idea for an attack. I have other skills of course." Glorfindel gestured to the block of wood in his hand where a face was beginning to form. "I am a decent teacher when it comes to history, horse riding, and map drawing, but my skills and my talent are found on the training ground and the battlefield.

We are never just what we are good at, Lindir, or what we may become. Every part of a personality is in the total make-up of a person and while one aspect may be larger than another, it is not all we are. So you are a minstrel, Lindir, and a warrior. You write your own songs, which tell stories, and therefore are also a bard. With the way you are preparing that bow, you have just a hint of well-taught archer in you. Galdor of the Tree would be proud. Sometimes we must become things out of necessity, like Elrond and Erestor who are best as scholars but must also be warriors and politicians, but then there are those such as you and I, where desire and necessity work out for the best." Finishing his speech, Glorfindel went back to his block of wood and left Lindir to contemplate his words in the familiar sounds of a camp at night.

* * *

_**Forlindon, 3430**_

_I have never fought with Men before outside of the Numenoreans, but the High-king seems certain that this Alliance is fortuitous. Still, it reminds me of the first time I fought with the Numenoreans, when I still wondered if I should have taken that position in Imladris that Erestor offered me; but Elrond insisted at the time that I would be more safe in the palace of the High-king. The Half-elf has always viewed me as a younger sibling and after the death of his brother I could only encourage such behavior in order to assuage his grief. I believe that is why he is not eager for me to go on the march, fear of losing even more people in his life after already losing so many._

_

* * *

_

_Eastern Arda, on the Road to Mordor, 3432_

Lindir stood among the fallen, surprised that he still breathed. He could feel the grit and the blood grind into his own flesh. He took the status of his body, falling back on the protocols Glorfindel drilled into him before they left all those years ago. Upon finding his harp, he laughed. The tight string and strong pillars of the instrument had stopped a blade attack. The harp damaged, the elf surprisingly not. There was a story for a song.

"Are you well, brother elf?"

Lindir focused on the strong voice among the wind and the blood that rushed through his ears.

"Pardon?" Lindir turned his head and found a tall elf with a guard behind him.

The elf laughed. "Well enough to remember your manners then." He approached Lindir, "You are one of Gil-galad's troops."

"How-"

"You are not one of the my father's troops and you do not speak with the accent of the Sindar. Therefore you are either one of Cirdan's troops, and by default one of Gil-galad's, or you are one of Gil-galad's troops in origin. Either way, your camp is only two leagues off." The elf gestured to the western horizon.

"The ambush separated me from the group." Lindir studied all the dead men around him with arrows sticking out of their bodies in perfectly executed kill shots. "I suppose much thanks is due to your archers."

"And some of your own, I suspect." The elf gestured to the fallen. "Not all of those fletching are ours."

"Who are you?" Lindir asked.

"Thranduil of the Wood Elves," he replied.

"King Oropher's son?" Lindir asked.

"Yes. And you?" Thranduil asked, as if it was normal for a simple warrior and a king's son to be conversing surrounded by the fallen.

"Lindir of Mithlond," he answered.

"One of the minstrels, yes? I believe I heard your perform more than once when I visited Gil-galad's home." The elf smiled in greeting as he approached Lindir. He held out his hand/ "My wife speaks very well of you."

"Your wife?" Lindir asked, taking the hand offered and meekly following the elf as he walked towards some destination.

"You may know her, as some of her kin once lived in Lindon. Laeriel is my wife's name and she is kin to Glorfindel."

Lindir stopped. "Laeriel? You are Laeriel's husband?"

"Yes," Thranduil replied with a smile, "for quite some time now."

"I did not even know she wed," Lindir murmured.

"Her parents wish to keep it a bit of a secret since they are ashamed of their daughter marrying a wood elf, and it did not seem right to have a large celebration among my people in the face of war. We held a simple ceremony among a chosen few. Yet, married we are and I know she will be glad to hear that you are well. Quite of fan of yours, my wife."

"Please give her my thanks and my blessings, to the both of you. Congratulations are of course due." Lindir looked around the area in a daze. "Where, where are we, exactly?"

Thranduil laughed and slapped Lindir on the back. "Come, brother elf, let me take you back to your camp before you get even more lost."

* * *

_**Forlindon, 1693**_

_I do not know how this journey will end or where it will end up. I must admit to myself that I feel excitement in the not-knowing, in the mystery, and yes, even the danger. While having no lack of sense of survival, I do wonder at the world beyond all the borders. My missions before now have all focused among other groups of elves up and down the coasts. For the first time, I will be out among other peoples, even Ents if Cirdan speaks true. _

_I wonder at their music and their stories. Gildor informed me that among the Men, minstrels are highly regard__ed as the keepers of the tales and the histories. For them, a minstrel's lot is to travel beyond the borders and seek out new lore while passing on their own. I am eager to take this task on. Cirdan assures me that elven minstrels used to hold similar positions before all the divisions, battles, and isolation. He insists that nothing quite unites like a common song and I wonder if such a performance will be required of me. I do hope so._

The moon rises and so I must put this away for now. Glorfindel insists on a full night of rest for on the eve of departure. He is well aware of the nerves that keep the new riders and fighters awake the night before we set out.

I can only wonder at the excitement that awaits.

There I go, my mind wandering again. Was it really only a year ago when I lamented over my time in Pigswatch? Oh, to be there again than on this road to face more fighting. I do not know how any young elf could want to aspire to this and nothing else. Perhaps that is what makes warriors so unique. Dirt is embedded in my skin, I have not had a proper wash in months, and my tent-mate snores louder than those pigs from Pigswatch.

Yet, there is joy to be found even here. I see how everyone comes together and bonds of kinship and more are formed. I do not think I have ever written so many songs in my life. I just wish I had the proper resources to write them all down. Writing materials are, understandably, scarce and what we do have must be saved for other matters. I have my journal at the least, but I do not want to fill these pages with music but with simple words. I will commit a few to these pages though, the ones that have helped us all unite and held us together through our grief.

* * *

Though perhaps with less pigs next time.

I set out for Imladris in the morning to bring my notes and observations to Elrond. It will be my first visit and sight of the land and I am quite eager to arrive, yet I know caution must be pursued over anything else in times like these.

* * *

Still, despite all the training and the small missions I completed in the past, I do not know if I am ready for such a battlefield as this.

* * *

Perhaps father will let me borrow grandfather's.


	5. O'er All The Weary World

**Disclaimer: **It all belongs to Tolkien.

**Author:** rivlee

**Title:**O'er All the Weary World

**Series:**Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:**Third Age

**Place:**Eriador

**Rating:**PG

**Characters/Pairing:**Glorfindel, Gildor. Gen.

**Summary:**Glorfindel's time with Gildor's people during the Harsh Winter.

**A/N:** Unbeated. First posted December 22, 2009

_**O'er All The Weary World**_

_Still thro' the cloven skies they came,_

_With peaceful wings unfurl'd._

_And still their heavn'ly music floats_

_O'er all the weary world._

-Edmond H. Sears, It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

_The Road to Imladris, Winter 2758-9 of the Third Age_.

"This winter is fit for neither beast, man, or elf," Gildor muttered. He pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his body and huffed out an annoyed breath. "When an elf feels discomfort in the cold you know someone has angered the Valar."

"Weakling," Glorfindel said, his face morphing into a smirk. "You have spent far too long in warmer climes."

Gildor threw a hand of powdery snow at Glorfindel's head. "Do not toy with me, Elda, not all of us lived in city surrounded by mountains. Even you must admit this winter is harsh by anyone's terms."

Glorfindel passed a look back to his horse, laden down with medical supplies to fight the death and famine that seemed to be sweeping over Eriador. Elrond had sent him out two months ago with his rations, making messengers ride out to meet him with more, but even Gildor and his Wandering Company were making little headway in the face of winter's wrath.

"Perhaps you have a point," he conceded. "I cannot recall the last time winter was so bad, nor the deaths so many. Elrond fears it will be a bloodbath by the time Spring comes. He says reports from the paths near Rohan recount death tolls as high as Eriador."

"Mithrandir is guarding the iperiannath/i's settlement. I am certain he is using some of this talent to ensure they have crops and cattle to survive the season. Does he know much about the art of healing?"

"There are some of the Dunedain who carry more knowledge of the art than him, but he knows well how to handle frostbites and kisses of ice," Glorfindel said, eyes scanning the haze of swirling snow. It was blowing sideways, wind pushing up elvish tents that had stayed still during the worst of rain storms. "There is something unnatural about this, I fear."

"Yet you still are out here, marching with us through the snow to bring what we can to all the villagers." Gildor reached out a hand and dusted snow off his shoulders. "I swear you do not know how to live a peaceful and quiet life. You are not content unless you have a direct line to the front."

"Once a Captain, always a captain," Glorfindel muttered.

He did not know why he traveled with Gildor's company, outside of the fact that even he needed their knowledge of the best paths to deliver the medicine and poultices. The Wandering Company brought their own form of healing. No potions and salves, since they did need to keep their own reserves, but they did bring song, dance and stories. Wares to sell and an air of mystery which made people forget their troubles, even in a winter as bleak as this one. The curative magic of laughter and fantasy could not be measured in little bottles of tonic and tins of ointment, parcels of bandages and warm skins of water.

Gildor stood silent in the night, studying the language of the stars in a way Glorfindel was never able to understand or learn. He looked almost mythical like this, his dark hair stark against the white-covered land around them, the deadened sounds of the night passing over and around the snow.

"We should be in Imladris within a fortnight," Gildor said. "We have one last village to stop at before our next long engagement at the Hall of Fire."

"One day you will tell me how you manage to do that," Glorfindel said.

"It is a family trait, I fear, meant only for those of us destined to wander," Gildor said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Gildor had wandered Arda for time untold, ever since the sacking and burning of his village in the First Age. As he once told Glorfindel, what does one do when their home is gone? Forge new foundations, or keep wandering the world until called to Aman. When your home was destroyed by your supposed kin, it was not easy to settle among other elves without fear and suspicion burrowing deep, so Gildor appointed himself as one who would travel, and lead those with restless and wandering hearts. He still walked the world, even though his wife, children, siblings, all had taken the final journey Westward. Glorfindel was not fool enough to tell Gildor to leave his post, despite seeing the strain it sometimes placed on him. They both knew how strong a tie of duty felt, especially when it was appointed by the Valar.

"When we get to Aman, remind me to thank your kin, for that family trait might be what save us all one day," Glorfindel said. "I do not think we shall find an easy rest this night. If I may be so bold as to suggest it, I think it is time we struggled on."

Gildor nodded. "There will be no rest to find tonight, not in this weather, and we are needed elsewhere." He started to clap and call to his people, gathering them all for a march through the night.

The village they stopped in was not as well-off as those closer to Imladris, nor did it hold the signs of abandonment in the northern settlements. Glorfindel remembered passing through it once in the Second Age when elves and dwarves were the primary denizens behind the walls. An old crumbled stone arch was one of the few remnants of the glory of old. There was a base of a statue where the center of the old village was marked, an old forge now a stable, an even older place of worship now an armory.

It was the type of village Gildor preferred to bring the Wandering Company through, not so far gone their performances would be an insult and not too well off that the citizens would feel themselves above the entertainment of folk songs and dance. A well-kept inn served as their council meeting hall and prime venue of entertainment, a good shelter from the harsh breezes outside. It was cramped in here, difficult even for an elf to move with grace, but there was a tangible sense of joy in the crowd which was more of a reward than any pittance of money the village could pay.

The Elder of the Village sat in a high-backed wooden chair, suspicious eyes watching their movements, perhaps believing one of the many myths about elves, as if they were more meddlesome fairies than stoic beings. Glorfindel was well-acquainted with elven mischief, he'd been there for Elladan and Elrohir's youth after all, but he never quite understood how they garnered the reputations as pick-pocketing tricksters.

The Wandering Company's performances weren't for cynical adults but for the young children of all races of Middle Earth who still believed in the immaterial. Glorfindel came loaded down with bandages and tins of healing herbs and lotions to soothe their wounds, but Gildor's people came with hints of magic, teasing notes of music, and proof that outside the run down village borders, there were some things more pleasing than dangerous.

The elves of the Wandering Company were working their unique skills around the main room, gathering groups into corners and weaving tales. One of the minstrels held an audience by the fire, using his special talents to make shapes appear in the flames while he sang an epic of a young country boy's first journey into the Wild. A table near the back was the place of barter, as the elves traded their gathered goods from Arda with the village's people for food and canvas, supplies for the horses and tools for repairs.

Glorfindel paced the room, eyes sweeping in every direction to quiet any possible ruckus, before making his way to Gildor's side. He wasn't here to guard anyone, and Gildor needed no such protection, but too many lifetimes of service kept Glorfindel in the habit of watching noble elves. Not to mention the fact Erestor would never let him forget it if Gildor ever came under harm with Glorfindel present.

Gildor sat in his own high-backed chair, his nature turning the worn wood into a throne, welcoming each new child who came up to him with a warm smile and a small present. It was a tradition Gildor performed in each village, no matter the season or reason for passing through, a remnant of long-forgotten hospitality laws of giving gifts to those who gave shelter.

A young mortal girl, braids loose, skirt threadbare and patched, approached Gildor. There was little fear in her face, more a curiosity as if she did not quite believe the stories told by her Elders but still did not know what to make of the elf before her. Glorfindel placed a discrete hand over his face to hide his smile, easily reminded of more than a few young she-elves in Imladris.

Gildor smiled at her, holding his hands out in the way most tried to calm a scared animal. "Do you have a question?" he asked her.

She passed an appraising look over Gildor and nodded, shuffling forward. Glorfindel noticed her cheeks were slightly flushed, though the rest of her color was pale. It wasn't embarrassment, but the lingering effects of that illness which seemed to be taking down so many this winter. He doubted her family had the money to pay a good healer or have access to the best food and water. Glorfindel felt in his cape for one of the smaller healing packets to give her family.

"Why do you wander?" she finally asked from her place at Gildor's feet.

Gildor patted her head, placing a small silver bell in her hand. "The question, my dear, is why does everyone else stand still?"

The child smiled at him in confusion, but nodded in acceptance, before thanking him for the bell and running back to her mother. Glorfindel approached the mother, handing over the small packet of herbs with a smile.

"From Lord Elrond of Rivendell," he said in his best ambassador voice. Elrond's name always garnered trust in this part of Arda, all knowing of the wise and benevolent healer who ran the sanctuary in the river valley.

The mother accepted the packet with an astonished nod, pushing her daughter toward the exit. The little girl turned around, waving at Glorfindel. He waved back and winked at her before returning to Gildor' side.

"The family may make her sell that bell for money," Glorfindel said.

"And if that was your chief concern than you wouldn't be pulling bells off your own bridle and handing them to all the small children," Gildor said, his eyes tracking the movement of his people.

"I am not the one proposing debates on existence and life choices with small children," he said.

"You did, however, get into very intense discussions with elflings over the power of glory and the idea of myth versus truth," Gildor said. "Children are magical in their ability to take things as they are, without questioning your motives or looking for a solution that best suits them. They still believe in the unknown, they still see beyond in a way they forget as they grow older." He pressed back into the chair. "They fascinate me in that way."

"I've always found them to be sources of joy and amusement for a time," he said. He leaned against the wall. "The night seems to be going well."

"They have had so little to celebrate this past season," Gildor answered. "It is a long winter yet to come. The distraction of our songs and tales will take away some of their cares tonight. All who listen shall have sweet dreams and peaceful sleep this eve." He lifted a tankard of ale from the table beside his chair and took a sip.

"You and Lindir should discuss the healing power of music."

"Or rather, the differences between playing in a royal hall and playing in an inn's common room. Different audience, different songs, music and motivations." He put down his tankard. "Everyone here already thinks us something mystical and magical and expects our songs to have some sort of power over them. While we can push a little, the only reason any of it works is because they want it to heal them. So much of this is self-healing in ways few audiences ever realize."

"And is that why you wander?" Glorfindel asked, already knowing the answer Gildor would give. It was their own tradition, to hold this conversation at least once each time they met.

Gildor laughed, the sound drawing the attention of many people, all wide-eyed from the power of elvish laughter. "You know as well as I, Glorfindel," he said in the dialect once spoken in Gondolin, "not all those who wander are lost."

The path to Imladris revealed itself in the whisper of magic that always made Glorfindel pause and appreciate all the river valley gave them. Snow glistened on the surface, a light dusting compared to what fell elsewhere in the last storm. Even some of the Wandering Company were more than ready to spend a few nights in a bed under a ceiling of plaster rather than stars.

Music rose from the valley, the river, the wind, and the elves busy at work and tending to all the travelers who sought sanctuary on winter nights such as this. Their voices guided the strangers down the path to the Last Homely House.

"I see Lindir has gotten creative with the verses, again," Gildor said, his breath misting under the moonlight in the night air. "I did not know there was a whole song dedicated to the Wandering Company."

"He lost a bet with Elrond," Glorfindel said. He guided his horse down the steep road, ignoring Gildor's smirk at the bell-less bridle.

A sweet tinkling echoed through the night, the bells marking the hour.

"Are you glad to be home?" Gildor asked.

"It is only a short return," he admitted. "I will have to set up whole new patrols to get out the healing supplies. Our own village is in desperate need of more meat stocks and from the many dead we passed on the way here, I will need to put sentries in our unoccupied guard posts. Still, it is good to take a moment and rest from the road."

"Warmth, music, food and song. Home and its own healing properties, no matter which road you wander or where you call it," Gildor said.

"Home is what you make it," Glorfindel agreed. He reached his free arm around Gildor's shoulder and pulled him close, laughing as he stumbled. "And one person can have many homes."

"With all the bothersome parts of it as well," Gildor grumbled, sending a glare back to those laughing behind him.

Glorfindel shook his own head and laughed, smiling into the light coming from his home.


	6. The Parting Glass

**Title:**The Parting Glass

**Series:**Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:**Second

**Place:**Lindon

**Rating:**PG

**Characters/Pairing:**Glorfindel, Cirdan, Erestor. Gen.

**Summary: **Another year ends and begins.

**A/N:**Unbeated. First posted in 2009.

"The best way to end a year," Cirdan said, "is with hope." He held up his glass, all those gathered in the hall mimicking his movement, and said, voice powerful as any sea breeze, "To Hope."

Glorfindel whispered his own prayer, nestled into one of the alcoves, and watched the crowd disperse.

Erestor came to his side, dark eyes glittering in the low light of the lamps. He looked amused more than anything else, and when he spoke there was a smirk on his face.

" Here I find you hiding in the walls when I recall more the one legend trickling out of Gondolin which claimed you were the lord who was most likely to steal everyone's attention."

"That," Glorfindel said, gesturing with his glass, "is a lie. It was Rog, always Rog, subtle as his anvil and as quiet as the roaring waves." He took a sip of his wine. "Best smith I've ever met though, he was well suited for such a life and died as he said he would."

"And how's that?" Erestor asked.

"With honor to his last breath," he answered.

Erestor nodded. "So it has been written and so shall it remain." He gestured to the spectacle of wealth and circumstance behind them, where Ereinion held his Court in sway. "I do wonder how you find our celebrations in comparison to those you remember, if you remember them."

He felt the sad smile form on his face. "For occasions such as this, it was always solemn, always ceremonial." He watched the room, all the joyous faces, laughter filling the air, elves eager to live up to Cirdan's demand of _Hope_. "I would not say our way was best, or even better, but it was ours, as a ceremony such as this will soon be identified as yours. We change, Erestor, and how we choose to mark such ceremonies changes with us."

Erestor leaned back against the wall, watching the crowd in a similar manner. "There are still those solemn moments, and ceremonies, though we keep them to ourselves. The High King prefers such things kept to private quarters, since out here is more the politician's realm."

"You're right at home, then."

Erestor's smile was dark. "I do not presume to know all of what you are, Glorfindel, and I would beg of you to give me the same courtesy."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, properly chastised. "I do apologize, I often forget that I am the Outsider here, and especially so in your company."

"And why is that?" Erestor asked.

Glorfindel placed his cup on one of the side tables. He clasped Erestor's shoulder. "You are more like your grandsire than I could ever hope. Penlod often despaired over how your father's line would live, so far removed from family and blood allies, but you have done well. You have a survivor's trait, all of you."

"Elrond calls that stubbornness."

"Elrond needs to meet himself in a mirror," Glorfindel said. He found the younger elf mixed in the crowd at Ereinion's side, blended in like any other courtier. He patted Erestor's shoulder and stepped out of the alcove. "Here's to hope, and all that it may bring."

"Here's to hope and all that it has given us," Erestor replied.


	7. Respite

**Title:**Respite

**Series:**Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:**Third Age

**Place:**Imladris

**Rating:**PG

**Characters/Pairing:**Elrond, Glorfindel, Morwen. Glorfindel/OFC.

**Summary: **Everyone needs a time to rest.

**A/N:**Unbeated. First posted 2011.

_**TA 3021**_

All the sacrifices he had made in his lifetimes were worth it for such moments. He cherished these quiet afternoons, when no patrols were out and the river valley came to some semblance of peace and serenity. Glorfindel stretched out under the shade of an oak tree, his bare back tickled by the warm grass. He took a deep breath and let his mind drift. It was rare to get such a respite during the busy days of upheaval and packing, but he could not deny himself the opportunity.

"How scandalous of you," Morwen said as she approached.

He would have made a remark about her walking outside in her bare feet, but he did not want sarcasm and barbs at this moment. He silently beckoned to her.

"Are we not speaking?" she asked. She laid down beside him, resting her sun-warmed hair over his heart. "Dare I disturb your silent contemplation?"

"I will excuse you this time," he said. He ran a hand through her hair. "We are resting."

"Are we?"

"I fear there shall be few days left like this in Imladris. Therefore, yes, we are."

Morwen kept silent, but she could not keep her body still. Glorfindel held back his own laughter at the involuntary twitch of her fingers.

"You do not succeed at resting," he admonished.

"You may recall that Lord Elrond has plans to sail within the year. Somewhere in that abyss known as your memory, you may also recall that he established this home in the Second Age. You, oh ancient warrior, may have little to do, but those of us who grasp the fine arts of indexing and organization are rarely without work."

"And you, Councilor Morwen, may remember that Imladris overflows with pages, scribes, librarians, lore masters and servants. A high-ranking member of its Council is not expected to dust off bookshelves and mark off scrolls."

"Then how shall I ever know it is being done correctly? Imagine the horror after their arrival on the shores of Aman and they unpack _Epic Poetry of the First Age_ with _Tales of the Nine Walkers_?"

Glorfindel sighed. There would be no wining this argument.

"It is not that I distrust our talented staff," Morwen said. "I just fear what will happen without a watchful eye. The works in this library, in Elrond's own study, they are priceless. Erestor is not sailing with them, I shall not yet leave, and Elrond will have more pressing matters on his mind. Am I to trust the greatest intellectual treasures of our realms to a group of far less careful Lothlorien elves?"

"Would it please you if I asked Cirdan to ensure they are handled with the utmost care?"

"It is not Cirdan I doubt," Morwen huffed.

Glorfindel toyed with a lock of her hair. "We can depart with them," he whispered. "If it would please you."

Morwen shook her head, the soft tresses teasing his skin. "I have no desire to end my time in Arda, you well know this, but if you wish to leave, than I suppose I shall."

It took them centuries to reach this sort of open compromise in their relationship. Two prideful, willful, stubborn elves did not an easy match make. It amazed Glorfindel they could talk about something so calmly, when millennia ago there would be all rounds of silence and snide remarks.

This quiet, pleasing discussion was a great testimony to how far they'd come.

"I see no reason to hurry," he said. "I must admit, I quite revel in the thought of you taking up Erestor's mantel, guiding Elladan in the ruling of our realm."

"I give it five years before Celeborn marches here to take over."

"Have faith, Morwen," Glorfindel said. "Ten years at best."

Morwen laughed, open and joyful. The events of the past century had weighed them all down, the past few years alone being nothing but one unending problem after another. It was a gift to laugh without any undertones of stress or desperation. It was laughter for the sake of happiness and amusement, not out of a desperate need to appear normal.

Morwen pushed herself up and leaned over him. Her dark hair fell over her face, covering up her impish smile to any intruders watching them. The afternoon sun glinted off her necklace and its new silver addition. Glorfindel could not help himself and tugged her down for a kiss. This was his wife, and no matter how many times he repeated the words to himself, he still felt disbelief. True, only two other elves knew of their wedded state, but even now, the thought they could live open with their betrothal and fear nothing but Rian's suggestions for a wedding wardrobe, was a matter Glorfindel would be forever grateful.

"Do I need to throw a pail of water on you two?" Eluialeth asked.

They glanced up at their friend. Her dark robes were covered in dust and cobwebs. Every last elf who once hid things in tiny places had come to Eluialeth these past few months, begging the use of her small stature and determination.

"We are quite fine, I assure you," Glorfindel said, "but you may be in need of a wash."

Eluialeth shrugged. "I would complain of all the dust mites and paper fleas, but my father claims at this rate I shall have the family home in Aman paid for before he even sails. I cannot believe the preposterous amounts some of these elves are willing to pay for the retrieval of a small trinket they have not worn since the Second Age. It's pure madness."

"They have no desire to offend old promises," Glorfindel explained.

"Then why would they bury such things away in the ceiling beams?" Eluialeth asked. "I can understand protecting your valuables, but we have vaults."

"Some old behaviors never changed," he said. "Though I agree that anything of true importance should be placed somewhere easily retrievable."

"It would make the most sense," Eluialeth agreed. She let out a sound of disgust when she pulled a cobweb out of her hair. "Perhaps I shall bathe. Eru knows just what creatures were hiding in Crabanon's chambers. I almost fear I shall never be clean."

"And only seventy-five percent of Imladris left to help," Morwen said.

"Thank you, my dear friend, for trying to raise my spirits," Eluialeth muttered as she walked off in a huff.

Morwen graced him with an amused smile, desperately trying not to laugh. He hid his own laughter by burying his head in her hair.

Glorfindel paused on the threshold of Elrond's chambers. He could still recall the construction of these walls, the bare bones of rocks, wood, and concrete. Never had this room been in such shambles, not even after the move from Lindon.

"I do not know what I shall do, walking these halls without stumbling across you brooding somewhere," he confessed.

Elrond looked up from the chest he was elbows deep in. "I could very well say the same about you," he answered.

"You got along fine without me and shall learn to do so again."

"Please do not think your friendship and guidance so easily forgotten."

"I send you to a land of re-born elves, your wife, your parents, and your grandparents. You shall never be without sound council, Elrond, though I do fear you may be without peace."

Elrond smiled. "Who truly desires a quiet life anyway?" He held up a stack of parchment. "The children's first attempts at penmanship. I know these are of no value to the historical record, I know everything in this chest is far from necessary, and yet I cannot begin to imagine parting with them."

Glorfindel sat down beside his friend and peered in the chest. It was an ancient piece of craftsmanship; a gift from Gil-galad that Glorfindel never had the heart to tell any of them came from Gondolin, probably scavenged off the dead. It came with them on the move to Imladris and stayed empty until the twins first began their lessons. Since then it acquired a whole collection of elfling penmanship and rhetoric, of first drawings and knitting projects. Arwen's first banner for her dog, Elladan's first scarf, Morwen's first report from the road, numerous drawings of Elrohir's, the first dagger Thalion worked on, Estel's first letter home.

He reached into the chest and shifted some of the items, finding a smooth rock from the riverside, a treasure Eluialeth found years ago. A small jar containing the pinecones of Greenwood, a gift from a young Legolas. He smiled when he unearthed Rian's first attempt at a dress for one of her dolls.

"You can keep all your old tomes and banners by fine craftsmen," Glorfindel said. "I see no greater treasures in Imladris than these." He patted Elrond's arm. "How many copies of the _Tales of the First Age_do we honestly need? We should bring all of our knowledge of healing and weaponry, all our records of the various peoples of Arda, but this," he said while gesturing to the chest, "this is the most important thing for you to carry."

"You do not think it too frivolous?" Elrond asked.

"I think you a fool for trying to leave this behind," Glorfindel said. "Either you bring it now or I shall bring it with me later."

Elrond sighed and sat back on his haunches. He dusted off a smudge on his plain tunic. "I suppose it would be better to leave a list of tomes I would like sent with each party that sails."

"Indeed," Glorfindel agreed.

"It is not as if all of Imladris is emptying."

"It is not."

"Morwen and Eluialeth are more than capable of overseeing the transportation of anything left in the archives."

"They are."

Elrond sighed and leaned against his bedpost. He looked so far from a ruler in these times. Gone were the circlets and robes of office which hindered most physical activity. He still wore the simple tunic and leggings like a king, but it was easier to see Elrond's true heritage like this, the broad frame of his Edain heritage coupled with the lines of worry on his face and an early morning stubble.

"It is not so easy to give up my rule," he admitted. "I have no doubts over Elladan's ability, but to realize that the time has finally come, I am not coping well, my friend."

"May I be blunt?" Glorfindel asked.

"Since when do you ask?"

Glorfindel smiled at that. "Elrond, nothing you say or wish can or will change what happens to Imladris after you depart. Our time is over; you have done more than most to ensure the future stability of Arda. It is time for you to break your ties, and your worries, over this land. Look only to your own future and reunion with so many you hold dear."

"My children will be here."

"And trust that you've taught them enough to survive on their own. You did well for an elf left more often than not to his own musings."

"Yet you stay."

"I have an oath to fulfill. I must see your line at least to the end of Elladan's rule." He grasped Elrond's shoulder. "But you, my friend, your oath has long been fulfilled. No one can deny all you have done. Let yourself rest, Elrond, and let your son take up the reins as is his destiny."

Music drifted in from the open windows.

"Do you hear that?" he asked Elrond. "The minstrels play and we all must dance."

"The world could be burning to the ground and Lindir will still be playing his damnable music."

"He understands that there are times when no amount of wisdom or lore can soothe a weary soul." Glorfindel stood. "Come, it would be insulting for you to not make an appearance."

Elrond studied him for a moment and Glorfindel tried not to flinch under his gaze. He never told him as much, but Elrond had a prefect imitation of Idril's piercing stare.

"I do wonder how strange this world has become when you are the one cautioning us all to put aside our duties and relax," he said.

"Estel is the King of Men, the world has gone all topsy-turvy, no going back now," he replied.

He held his hand out to Elrond. "Let your people see you dance and laugh, for one last time."

"I do not know if I want that to be their last memory of me," he confessed.

"You will have plenty of time to give long-winded and sentiment felt speeches," Glorfindel said. "How many more chances will you have to dance under a warm Imladrian sun?"

Elrond took his arm and stood up. He adjusted his tunic and took a deep breath, the air of a long-time ruler settling over him.

"Let us not keep our people waiting," he decreed.

The soft sounds of harps, flutes, fiddles, and elvish song filled the valley even into the night. Glorfindel laid on the floor of his balcony, listening to the tone of the music change from fun, to reverent, to soothing lullabies.

The smells of the impromptu feast still filled the halls of the house, along with the always joyous sounds of elven laughter. He considered it his duty well done, to see the household and all its citizens relaxing for one last time, together.

It was not only the times of trials and tears which formed lasting memories and everlasting bonds.

Morwen slept beside him, curled up into his side. She'd finally given into his prodding for her to nap for a moment and let someone else work throughout the night in the archives.

Glorfindel let his fingers card through her hair and took in a deep breath. He could feel himself start to drift off into reverie as well.

He had survived three Ages, countless wars, fallen brothers and sisters, oceans of blood. He helped to raise elf-lords and ladies, countless kings and queens, and a dizzying amount of warriors. He'd seen so much, been through two lifetimes, one death, and witnessed the changing of world over time. And through it all, it took a series of sacrifices and strengths from the Free Peoples of Arda to teach him how to relax.

He would miss this world, all he learned and lost in it, but he knew by now when it was time for a lifestyle change, either by choice or circumstance.

He could never recall looking forward to anything so much in all his years.


	8. Fighting to be Warm

**Title:**Fighting to be Warm

**Series:**Legend, Lore, and Lullabies

**Age:**Third (Main)

**Place:**Imladris (Main)

**Rating:**PG-13

**Characters/Pairing:**Elladan, Elrohir, Rian. Elladan/Rian (OFC)

**Summary:**Elladan needs his own shelter from the storm.

**A/N:**Unbeated. First posted 2009.

_**Fighting to be Warm**_

_'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood_

When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.

"Come in," she said,

"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

-Bob Dylan, "Shelter From the Storm"

_**Imladris, TA 2953**_

Elladan and Elrohir rode back into their river valley home, throwing silent signs to the sentries hidden in the trees along the way. It was dark, a late night even for elves, and most of the lamps in the valley in the house were either turned down to a shimmer or completely dark. Even the fires burned low at this hour.

The orc activity was increasing again and it required more patrols for information. It also required a heartier defense of the borders and an increase of activity they had not seen in Imladris for years. He and Elrohir were regaining skills they had lost in the Watchful Peace and learning even more ways of riding through the world undetected. On this past patrol it was not only orc and goblin they were forced to kill but men. Wildmen out of the forests who were taking up with the dark forces for a future they feared. It never sat well with Elladan, taking the life of a man, knowing they shared a similar ancestor, but as a warrior he knew that it was truly kill or be killed.

It did not make the blood any easier to wash off.

He was tired, soul weary to be honest, and all he truly desired was a respite from his duties.

"Go to the house," Elrohir said, "I will take our horses to the stable."

"Are you certain?" Elladan asked.

Elrohir smirked. "Give me your pack, brother, and go enjoy what is left of your night." He dismounted and held out his hands for Elladan's pack and reins.

Elladan eagerly gave both. "I will repay your kindness one day," he promised.

"Not for some time yet," Elrohir murmured. "Shoo, off with you."

Elladan conjured up a wide smile for his brother before following his orders and sprinting down the walkways to the house.

Elladan walked the length of the quarters which held Erestor's family, Morwen and Rian. Thalion once held rooms here before he moved. Tirnion's lived here now, while Glorfindel's own set were on the same wing as the immediate blood family. Security measures as Glorfindel termed it, paranoia as Elrohir insisted. Still, it quite amused him to see the formality of their adult housing when they all came from the same nursery.

A low light burned under the threshold of Erestor's quarters and soft whispers escaped through the door's cracks. Eluialeth's room also had a light under its door and the turning of pages could be heard. Morwen's new quarters were dark and quiet, but with the coming of Autumn and a wound that flared up on cold nights, he would not be surprised if she slept in the Healing Halls, Tirnion as the ever watchful guide at her side.

He came at last to Rian's door and knocked in a code developed long ago. Elladan held his breath as she opened the door. He was ever so thankful that she allowed him to have this familiarity again. He did not know how he'd get through nights like this without her.

"You look terrible," she said. She pulled him inside and sat him down at her washing basin. "At least you refrained from falling into a mud pile this time."

"Not for the lack of my horse's trying."

Rian huffed and poured water in the basin. She picked up a brush and stood behind him, pulling out the leather ties in his hair. She poked his arm. "You are more than capable of washing your face and hands while I brush out this bird's nest that is your hair. Don't make me do all the work."

Elladan laughed, but did as she said. He dared not to look at the dark swirls in the formerly clear bowl of water. He drowsed as she worked the brush through his hair, her movements swift and sure.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked. She put the brush down and tilted his head up.  
"You need a shave."

"Later, on both accounts," he answered. "I just wish to rest, with you, here."

Rian stared into his eyes, seeming to do her best to gauge his mind. She nodded after a moment and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips. She pulled back and smiled down at him. "Get ready for bed, I will go down to the kitchens and gather some refreshments for us since you are not in the mood for company tonight."

He nodded. "Thank you," he whispered.

Rian traced his brow with a warm finger. "I am glad, as always, that you have returned to me, in safety and good enough health."

He reached out and gripped her hand, the cool metal of her betrothal ring pressing into his fingers. "I made you a promise and I intend to keep it."

"Be certain you do," she said. She squeezed his hand before leaving.

He sighed, pressing his drying hands over his face. He regarded his road clothes with a look of disgust. Going to one of the chest of drawers, he pulled out a clean pair of wool hosen and changed for bed. Rian still had yet to return, so Elladan wandered the room. He had spent so much time in here, from his youth until now. There were items from both of their lives strewn all about, Rian's embroidery mixing with his extra bows and knives. One of his cloaks sat over a chair, waiting to be mended since Arwen was again in Lothlorien. Turning from the room, he walked over to the balcony, pushing open the doors and surveying the land below.

He remembered well the stories of Imladris' founding. How his father, Erestor, Glorfindel, and Lindir ran throughout the countryside with a following of warriors and a group of survivors in search of a sanctuary. The tales of how the trees bent to reveal the path to the river valley, how the waters rose and increased in their noise to protect them, how the very earth answered their call for a safe place to rest filled his childhood. This land, the valley and its inhabitants, remained one of the best representations of what his father could and would do when it came to the protection of those he loved and for whom he felt responsibility. Elladan could not imagine how he bore that weight, when he found himself struggling with the requirements of protecting the people of Arda while killing his mortal cousins. He never imagined it could be so different when the blood he spilled was a familiar red rather than a dark and unknown ooze.

"I never understood why people stare off into the distance, as if the skies will reveal answers to their questions and worries. I have always been of the mind that there is more mystery present in a night sky than revelation," Rian said. She carried a small tray in her hands, shaking him off when he moved to help her. "Stay there contemplating the unknown, I must go back down for the drinks."

"Rian, I can help you," he insisted.

"Yes, you can, by staying here and contemplating your mood so that when I return you will be ready to talk and perhaps receive comfort."

Elladan smiled. "If you insist."

"I do," she said with narrowed eyes, "this is me insisting." She left the room with a flourish, leaving Elladan to laugh at her departure.

He turned back to the outdoors and did, finally, look up at the sky. If the tales were true, and having met Glorfindel and Mithrandir he had no reason to believe they were not, his grandfather was up there, driving through the night in a ship among the stars, navigating a whole different sea. So many relied on the light of his star to guide them, an act and a duty that apparently reverberated down the family line, all the way to Estel.

Whenever he dwelled on the weight of his own title he found himself remembering that Estel bore in his care a fate no one would want or choose. To have to fulfill the promise and repair the foolish acts of events millennia in the past was almost too much to contemplate and ask of one young mortal. Was it any wonder that Estel spent so much of his time donning the names, lives, and disguises of other people? Ever since his majority he claimed to feel that his life was not his own and now, in an almost rejection of the cost of his fate, he assumed many different garbs, lives, names, tongues, and homes. Of all the Heirs of Isildur, Estel was the dearest to the whole household and having to admit that he was no longer their Estel, but Arda's Aragorn as well, was becoming more difficult as the years passed.

Never had Elladan felt more weighed down by his elvish lifespan and what that truly meant. He was not yet ready to watch the funeral of another Heir of Isildur but he could only pray that when Estel went it would be with old age and a full life.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Rian asked.

Elladan turned to her. "I did not hear your return," he confessed. "I am suffering too dark a mood on such a calm night with such beautiful company." He walked back into the room, leaving the balcony doors open to let in the breeze off the trees and waters. He came to Rian, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "What delights have you scrounged up from the kitchens for us?"

"Some salted pork and the first batch of muffins for the morning," Rian said. "Apparently your father's sweet tooth is acting up again. I would not expect the kitchens to be making muffins so late at night or so early in the morning."

Elladan laughed. "Father has always snacked on sweets while reading into the late hours. I remember so many mornings waking up to my mother scolding him for getting crumbs in the rooms. By the time of your arrival he had learned to confine such behavior to his studies. I believe he still does it out of respect."

"As he should," Rian muttered. "We already have enough mice running through the halls."

"I shall protect you from the mice," he whispered into her hair.

"As _you_ should," she answered. She gestured to the tray. "Now, shall we?"

Elladan reclined on the bed watching Rian turn down all the oil lamps in the room. Knowing it was best to let the cares of his mind out before they both attempted to rest he made the decision to speak about what had been darkening his mood for days.

"I had to kill men on this last pass," he whispered to the room. "I know it is my duty, I know I was meeting them in a fight and they lost, but it does not change the fact that part of my heritage is also part of theirs."

"You are not related to the Wildmen, Elladan," Rian said from her armoire. She pulled out the ties of her hair, letting it loose long enough to put in a low and loose plait.

"Do we know that? Can we know that for sure? Surely somewhere along the way, the bloodlines have mixed."

Rian turned to him, dressed in fresh bedclothes with a resigned but loving look on her face. She sat down next to him on the bed and said, "And yet thousands of years stand between you. Your closet mortal blood relations are the descendants of the Numenoreans, a blood line ancient before you were born. While I admit there is a possibility that some bastard offspring have carried that bloodline into the far corners of Arda, they are not your family. No longer."

Rian took a deep breath and continued, "You know my general feelings in regard to the Race of Men. They butchered my family, they cut Tirnion's father into pieces, and more than one has taken it upon him or herself to capture and torture an elf. That being said, I know there are great numbers of good mortals out there, and not just hobbits or rural warriors like Bard. You are allowed to feel regret for the taking of a life, as any creature mortal or elf-kind should, but you cannot let that regret consume you."

"You abhor killing and violence and yet you still stay with me," Elladan whispered. He ran a finger down her pale face, letting his hand tangle in strands of her red hair that had come loose. "I often wonder what good deed I've done in life to deserve you, or rather what horrid deed you've done to end up with me."

Rian pressed her lips to his. "There is no one else for either of us," she whispered, her breath warming him. "You are home, Elladan, and in our bed. Here there is no ranger, no warrior, no councilor, no lord's son, no orphaned daughter. It is just us, just our world, and here we are both as unblemished as children." She ran a hand through Elladan's hair, pulling the tangles out. "Here we find rest and sanctuary."

"Leave my cares at the door?" Elladan asked, tilting his chin up for another kiss.

"That is the general idea," Rian agreed. She kissed him, pulling away from him only long enough to make sure the balcony doors were shut and secure. Joining him back in bed, she rested her head on his chest. "I wish you calm dreams," she whispered, pressing a kiss right above his heart.

"I know they will be sweet dreams, since I share this bed with you," he replied.

"Such a flatterer. Even if they are not so sweet, I hope you find rest tonight."

"I am certain I will."

He woke in the morning secure in Rian's arms. It was a luxury he rarely experienced these days, as he wandered the world with the Dunedain and met out with Estel in the wild.

"Are you rested?" Rian whispered into his neck.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "I wish we could stay here all day. For once I want to just put aside my duties and rest."

"Truly?"

Elladan nodded.

"I think we have both earned a day of rest. I suggest you go seek out your brother to deliver a report to Glorfindel and your father. I will beg Eluialeth to take over my workload."

"She will consider that a reward," he muttered.

Rian nodded. "Some find great joy in their work, and surely Eluialeth does, but I believe she also uses it for an escape now that Tirnion is in residence and her conflicted feelings force her to avoid him at every turn." She forced herself out of bed. "We have all day to linger, but let us give our notice now."

He laughed and followed her movements, pressing a kiss to her cheek in passing. "I shall always do as my lady bids."

Elladan stood in the doorway of his brother's study. It had taken years for Elrohir to work up the nerve to ask for his own private work sanctuary, but as Estel spent more time out in the Wild, and as more of the Dunedain passed through Imladris on their own journeys, Elrohir had appointed himself the organizer and keeper of their knowledge. He finally understood why their father needed all those bookshelves, desks, and ledges.

"Is there a reason you are lingering on the threshold of my study?" Elrohir asked. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against his desk, organizing various bottles and tins of herbs and salves into the miniature emergency healing kits he often delivered to the Dunedain outposts and villages.

"Sometimes I find myself deriving joy from watching you at your tasks. It reminds me of the days when our mother used to stand to the side of your desk and scold you for sticking out your tongue as you attempted to complete a most difficult translation," he answered.

Elrohir glanced up. "It is good to know I bring you such joy in our childhood recollections." He picked up the wax tablet on his side and pressed in a mark with his stylus before moving on to the next kit. "Do you have any other reason for seeking me out so early in the morning?"

"I throw myself on your mercy and beseech you to remember our brotherly affection and ask you to deliver the report from out latest outing to Glorfindel, Erestor, and our father. I am eager for a day of rest and as Rian has decreed it shall be so, I would not dare to disappoint her."

Elrohir laughed. "Oh no, we must never disappoint Rian. That way lies screeching and fire." He tapped the stylus against his lips. "She does have magnificent aim with a flaming bag of herbs, to be sure. I wonder if we should work that into some sort of defense training."

Elladan raised a brow. "That is your future sister-in-law you mock and you know how thin these walls are, it will get back to her."

Elrohir nodded solemnly. "It is a risk I am willing to take. Rian is well acquainted with our family and knows that mocking comes with the membership. However, as I do believe you are in need of a rest I will agree to your pleading and Rian's demands. Furthermore, it will allow another chance for Glorfindel and I to have a mock argument. I think this time I shall bring up his besmirching of Morwen's virtue."

"Oh, they both so dislike when you do that," Elladan groaned.

"But it keeps the rumor mills turning and more and more believe that they are truly ended. It is what we must do for protection's sake." Elrohir stood and hugged him quickly. "I am glad to see you found rest and it is good to see you smile. Now go enjoy your day off."

Elladan returned his embrace. "I intend to. Do not bother us for anything short of a kin slaying," he said.

"I shall put the word out," Elrohir promised.

Elladan left his brother to his work and headed back to Rian's quarters.

"Look who decided to join the patrol," Tirnion called out. He was gathered outside the stables with the other warriors, loading up their horses and their packs.

He had agreed to take Elrohir's place on this patrol as a favor for yesterday, but that was a decision he knew he was going to regret. Some patrols were nothing but long rides full of gossiping elves.

"We all deserve a day of rest," Elladan replied. He greeted his horse, the animal eager for another ride out after a day of idleness. Elladan too was ready. He felt rejuvenated and prepared for another month's worth of patrol after such a day in the presence of Rian.

"A day of rest with our betrothed, if gossip from the scribes' quarters are to be believed. I do not know how truly restful that must be," Crabanon said, passing them by with a sketchbook in hand.

"Shouldn't you be painting something?" Elladan asked.

"Sketches first," Crabanon answered. He walked up the staircase leading to the summer garden and left the soldiers beyond with no further comment.

"How did you meet Rian?" Halbarad, one of the visiting Dunedain, asked while he loaded up his own mount.

"We've known each other since our childhood," he answered. "Her family was lost in an attack. Gildor Inglorion brought her to the house to be raised among myself and my brother, Morwen and Thalion."

"Thalion?" Halbarad asked.

"He lives now in the Grey Havens with his wife and children. He does much with the forces there, while his wife makes beautiful tapestries for the homes and clothing for all those who seek refuge," he replied.

"Her name is Eregeth, you may have heard her name in passing as she has fashioned many a ceremonial dress for the women of the Dunedain," Tirnion continued.

"My mother speaks her name in hushed and holy tones," Halbarad answered.

"She was quite the talent," he agreed. "Though it took long years to gain it. She was once a simple seamstress, but it seems the sea waters agree with her."

"So have you have been betrothed since childhood?" Halbarad asked. "That often occurs among my people."

"No," Elladan said with a laugh, "no, it was much more gradual and not so easy a journey due to my own misgivings and foolishness, but all is at is should be now."

"I suppose it fits. Your brother and Councilor Morwen, yourself and Councilor Rian. It is good to know they are not marrying you for your title alone," Halbarad said.

"I do not know how it is for my brother but for me, Rian is…" he trailed off and gathered his thoughts. "She is the only point of calm in the churning storm that is becoming my life more and more with each day," he confessed, dropping his gaze to his horse's mane. "It is my hope we all can find such a companion in our lives."

"Be careful, Halbarad, if you continue with this line of questioning we will have no tale told on this ride but the great romance of Elladan and Rian," Thandrog said.

"It was almost a tragedy," Baineth muttered from her horse. "May we ride now?"

"Tirnion?" Elladan asked.

Tirnion surveyed the patrol group, their horses and their weapons. He gave a nod from where he sat on his mare. "Let us ride."

"What does she mean, it was almost a tragedy?" Halbarad asked on the ride out.

"That, dear Halbarad, is a story for another night," Elladan said.

He looked up to the house as they rode out. He spotted Morwen and Elrohir from one of the healing room balconies, watching them. There was a flash of orange-red behind Morwen and then Rian appeared, waving them off. Elladan gave them a wave. He turned back to his fellow riders.

It was time to ride out again and he was ready to face whatever waited for them.


End file.
